


Coup de Foudre

by the_random_writer



Series: Separated Twins [25]
Category: Bourne (Movies), RED (Movies), The Bourne Supremacy (2004)
Genre: Alcohol, Brothers, Childhood Memories, Crossover, Dinner, F/M, First Dates, First Meetings, Flirting, Getting to Know Each Other, Inappropriate Erections, Lawyers, Lunch, Origin Story, Prequel, Separated Twins, Sex, Snark, Teasing, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:34:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 68,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23199496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_random_writer/pseuds/the_random_writer
Summary: A crossover where William Cooper from 'RED' and Kirill from 'The Bourne Supremacy' are identical twins.Born in Berlin to an American mother and a Russian father, the twins were separated at the age of ten by their parents' divorce. William went to the United States with their mother, while Kirill went to the Soviet Union with their father.Each installment in theseriestells the story of a moment in the twins' lives. Some are humorous, some are serious. They are all more or less standalone, but interconnect and refer to each other.This is the story of how William Cooper met his wife. All chapters are written, will be published one per day until done.Takes place mostly in July and August 2001. The final chapter (in which Kirill appears) takes place in July 2011.
Relationships: Michelle Cooper/William Cooper
Series: Separated Twins [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/324236
Comments: 26
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Thursday July 19th, 2001**

Michelle sighed as she scanned the huge room, giving up on her lunch hour plans.

Every single table was taken. Even the tables nobody usually wanted—the pair framing the washroom door and the one where one of the chairs was in the hallway that led to the back. It was so busy at Otto's Café today, even the lousy spots had people at them.

She blamed the weather. When the mercury was pushing three digits, nobody wanted to eat outside.

"You want that to stay or to go?" the woman behind the main counter asked.

Michelle turned to smile at her friend. "I'll take that to go, Janelle, thanks." She laid a ten dollar bill on the counter. "Gonna have it back at the office." Probably at her desk. Her other option was to eat in the kitchen, but the kitchen was usually Ian's haunt, and the less she saw of him this week, the better.

"Martha running you ragged again?"

"Not as much as last month, but a little bit, yeah." Michelle gestured at the congested room. "Would have it here if there was somewhere to sit."

"We'll have spaces in fifteen minutes," said Janelle, counting out and handing over her change. "People don't usually linger at lunch, so tables turn over pretty quickly."

Michelle dropped the change in the jar. "Can't wait that long. Have a meeting with Martha at two, you know how prepped she expects me to be. Want to have plenty of time to make notes on my files before I go in." Look at them, memorize them, be able to write a doctoral thesis on them—whatever kept Martha happy…

"Could always go eat in the park."

Just thinking about it made Michelle shudder. "Says the woman blessed with sun-tolerant skin. It's ninety-five in the _shade_ out there. I sit in that park for more than two minutes, someone'll have to scrape what's left of me into a plastic tub and pour me back into my office."

"Supposed to rain tomorrow morning."

Michelle grimaced. "Heat _and_ moisture. Great. _So_ much better than just heat on its own."

"Come back this time tomorrow, I'll swap you my sun-tolerant skin for your humidity-tolerant hair."

"Deal. Just remind me to bring my own table with me."

Janelle rolled her eyes. "You know, if you _really_ don't want to have lunch at the office, there _is_ a free seat."

Michelle whipped her head round, scanning the café again. There was no free table that she could see. "Really? Where?" she asked.

Janelle gestured over her shoulder, to the narrower, add-on space at the side. "Table one, right at the very end of the row."

Michelle leaned out to peek round the counter and check out the spot. "Uh, yeah, except there's a _guy_ sitting at it?"

"In the seat on the far side, yeah. The seat on the near side's free." Janelle shrugged. "It's a pretty big table. Plenty of room to share. You ask him nicely, I'm sure he won't mind."

Michelle could smell a setup a mile away. "Please tell me you're not trying to fix me up?"

"And what if I was?" Janelle said, slightly too innocently for Michelle's liking. "Not like he isn't cute."

Michelle leaned out to look again. The guy _was_ cute, as it happened. And cute in a way that made her neglected lady parts flutter. Late twenties or early thirties, broad-shouldered, tall and trim, short brown hair, serious brows, full lips, angular face, unusual but pleasing features. He was clean-shaven and smartly-dressed, and based on the spotless state of his shirt, obviously knew one end of an ironing board from another. She couldn’t see a wedding ring, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t taken.

Hmm.

"He a regular?" Michelle asked.

Janelle nodded. "Been coming in since the end of June, every Monday and Thursday. Orders one of the same three dishes every time. Tips well, never complains, _super_ polite." Grinning, she leaned over to whisper, "Always calls me _ma'am_."

He _looked_ nice, but as Ian's behaviour had so thoroughly proved, looks could be extremely deceiving.

"C'mon, girl," Janelle urged. "Go give Mister Tall, Dark and Handsome a chance. What's the worst that could happen?"

"I could end up being the first victim of Washington's newest serial killer?"

"Or, you could end up having lunch with the future father of your children?"

Michelle snorted. "Think you're running a little ahead of me there." Another customer came up behind her to order—time to make up her mind. "Okay, fine. Change that to stay at table one."

She approached the table cautiously, wearing her warmest and friendliest smile. She hoped the guy was the sharing type, but if he wasn't, she was ready to beat a hasty retreat. She really wanted to eat inside, but not to the point of picking a fight with a stranger about it.

With a couple of steps to go, she paused. What if he wasn't dining alone, but simply waiting for someone else to arrive? How embarrassing would _that_ be, to ask him if he would share his table just as his dining companion appeared? But his full attention was on the book he was reading—he wasn't raising his eyes every three to five seconds to check who'd just come in the front door. His body language was very much that of someone eating alone.

She cleared her throat. "Excuse me, but is this seat taken?"

Attention broken, he raised his head. Up close, she could see he had beautiful eyes—a colour that flickered from brown to gold to green depending on how the sunlight caught them. He frowned and blinked, not quite understanding her question.

She patted the back of the empty chair straight across from where he was sitting. "Would you mind if I share your table?" she asked. "I wouldn't normally bother you, but I can't face having lunch back at the office, and this is the only free seat."

"Oh, uh, sure," he said. More confidently, he added, "No problem, of course. Just let me move my stuff." He pulled his notepad, book and cup of coffee to his side of the table. "Please, help yourself," he said, waving her into the chair.

"That's wonderful, thank you." Tucking her skirt, she slipped into the seat.

He smiled politely and went back to his book.

She'd told herself she wasn't going to bother him, that she would do her best to make herself the Invisible Woman, but prolonged silence simply wasn't in her nature, especially in a setting as noisy and busy as this.

"That's a hell of a book," she found herself saying, nodding at the doorstop-sized tome.

Fortunately, his response was a grin, and the grin was as warm as his eyes. "Just a bit of light reading," he said, shrugging nonchalantly.

She raised a disbelieving brow. "Something easy to tide you over until the weekend?"

He snickered. "A weekend in 2020, yeah."

"May I ask what the book is?"

He angled it up to show her the cover. _Prince of Princes: The Life of Potemkin_ the title bar read, above an oval portrait of a man with frou-frou hair wearing what she guessed was formal 18th century dress. Obviously a biography, but she wasn't much of a history buff, so she wasn't familiar with the name.

"Looks fun," she lied.

"I'm writing a paper about his annexation of Crimea to Russia in the 1780s.” He grinned again. “Or, at least, I’m trying to. It's a really good book, but there's a lot of information to digest."

Interesting.

He looked a little too old for undergraduate work—maybe the paper in question was for his Masters or doctoral thesis. Or, maybe he was an academic, writing a paper for publication and peer review. Whatever the circumstances, the sentiment, she understood.

"Hellish, isn't it?" she said. "Trying to figure out the structure and what main points you want to make, having to sit down and write when you don't want to write, or, having a great idea at literally the worst possible time, when you're nowhere near a pen or a piece of paper."

"Kinda makes me understand why so many old-time authors and poets were drug addicts or alcoholics."

"Are you in school?"

He nodded. "Georgetown. Undergraduate. Heading into my final year."

Also interesting—her own (graduate) _alma mater_.

"Would you mind if I ask what course you're taking?"

He jammed his bookmark into the book and closed it over. From the way he drew his shoulders back, he seemed relieved to have an excuse to set it aside. "I'm at the School of Foreign Service, taking the Bachelor's degree in International History, with a concentration on Eastern Europe."

She let out a low whistle. "That's a tough course."

"Tell me about it," he said wrily.

"My roommate in second year started out at the SFS, but she couldn't handle the modern language requirement. At the end of the year, she transferred over to a similar course in the College."

"Oh, so, you're a Hoya as well?"

She nodded. "But at the graduate level. Georgetown Law, class of ninety-six."

His lip curled in a slight smile. "A lawyer, huh?"

"If you're about to tell me your favourite lawyer joke, please don't," she said, giving him a wounded look and holding up a deflecting hand. "I've _literally_ heard them all."

"Even the one about what you call a smiling, courteous person at a lawyer's convention?"

She sighed. Especially that one. "The caterer."

He grinned and took a sip of his coffee. "And what kind of law do you specialize in?"

"Not at all. Intellectual Property Law."

"So, like, trademarks and patents?"

"That's right," she said, strangely pleased he understood what she meant. "I mostly deal with Copyright Law. I was interested in Patent Law, but it's a hard subject to specialize in unless you have an engineering or science degree as well."

"Makes sense. You need to be able to understand whatever underlying technical process it is the patent's about."

"Exactly."

"If you don't mind me asking, what _did_ you do your undergrad in? Before you went to Law School, I mean?"

"PPL," she said, then added, "Philosophy, Politics and Law."

He scrunched his face in disgust. "Jesus," he muttered. "That's punishment, not education."

"Says the guy studying the history of Eastern Europe,” she said, gesturing at his book. "Not exactly the lightest or brightest of topics."

"I'm man enough to acknowledge that you make a good point."

"That's very generous of you."

"I'm a really generous guy."

Given how willingly he'd shared his table, she didn't find that hard to believe.

"So, do you like it?" he asked. "Intellectual Property Law, I mean?"

"Most of the time, yeah." Except when dealing with Ian. "It's very detail oriented, and I've met a lot of interesting people."

"I can imagine."

They paused as a server arrived at the table, carrying a heaped plate of food. "Sauerkraut casserole?" he said.

"Uh, yeah, that's me, thanks," her new dining companion said. He leaned back, patting the space between his knife and his fork.

The server set the plate on the table—a pile of a shredded, slightly greenish substance combined with potato chunks and bright yellow noodles, mixed through with grilled, chunky sausage slices.

"Sauerkraut, that's from Germany, right?" she asked once the server had left.

"The name's German, but it didn't originate in Germany. Lots of countries in that part of the world have a similar dish. The French call it choucroute instead."

It looked… interesting. "So, which ingredient's the _actual_ sauerkraut?" she asked, examining the constituent parts. Probably not the noodles, or the grilled sausage, which both looked absolutely delicious. "I've never ordered it, always been too scared to ask."

He picked up his knife and fork (she noticed he held them the Continental way), and used his fork to point at the greenish shredded stuff. "That's the sauerkraut right there."

"And what exactly is it?"

"Fermented cabbage."

She wrinkled her nose. "Eww."

"It's actually nicer than it sounds. And it's extremely nutritious, packed full of vitamin C. Captain Cook used to take a bunch with him on his ships cus he'd figured out it prevented scurvy."

"Think I'd rather have scurvy," she muttered, remembering the slimy, salty red cabbage her mother had made her eat as a child.

"Would you like to try some?" he asked, slipping his hand behind the plate, ready to push it towards her.

"Would you be offended if I said no?"

"Course not."

She held up a hand. "Then, thank you, but I think I'll pass."

"I find it's a love it or hate it food," he said, pausing to spear and chew on a forkful of noodles. "And eating bad sauerkraut'll put you off it for life."

She pointed at his plate. "I guess this is good sauerkraut?"

He nodded. "Best in town. Almost as good as my Oma's."

"As your what's?"

"Sorry, yeah, uh, my grandmother's."

"Is she German?"

His mouth full of noodles, he nodded again.

"Do you speak German?"

Another nod.

"Did you learn it from your grandmother?" She held up a hand. "And if I'm asking too many personal questions, feel free to tell me to mind my own business." She gave him a diplomatic grin. "I like meeting and talking to people, sometimes forget other people don't always feel the same way."

He shook his head. "Don't worry, you're fine. And actually, no, I didn't learn German from my grandmother." He paused to gulp a mouthful of coffee. "She spoke it to me, but I learned it when I lived in Berlin."

"You lived in Berlin?"

"For ten years, yeah."

"Recently?"

"Back when I was a kid."

She guessed his age, did some sums in her head. "So, before The Wall came down?"

"That's right."

"In the East or the West?"

"The West. Briefly in the British Sector, but mostly in the American Sector."

"Must have been interesting. Living there before reunification, I mean."

"To be honest, it was so long ago, I don't really remember," he said. "Left the summer I turned ten, haven't been back since."

She added two of his comments together. "You must have been born there, then."

"That's right."

"But you're American," she half-stated, half-asked. "Because you don't sound very German."

He worked through another mouthful of food. "I'm an American citizen, yes. And I've lived here almost twice as long as I lived there, so if I ever had an accent, which I probably did, I lost it a long time ago."

It occurred to her that if they were going to share information as personal as their origin stories, an introduction might be on the cards. She held out a hand. "I'm Michelle, by the way. Michelle McNally."

He set down his cutlery and grabbed a napkin to wipe his fingers. "William Cooper," he said, taking and shaking her hand. "Nice to meet you, Michelle."

"Cooper," she murmured. "That doesn't sound very German."

He reclaimed his fork and knife. "The Germans are on the maternal side. The Coopers were Irish."

Now, _this_ was a subject to which she could speak. "Really? Where in Ireland were they from?"

He frowned. "County Down, I think my grandfather said?" He shrugged and stabbed two slices of sausage. "But don't quote me on that."

"County Down's in Northern Ireland."

"Take your word for it. I know the basic geography of the British Isles, but that's about it."

"Your ancestors were probably good Ulster Protestants, then." She didn't know much about sauerkraut, or who Potemkin was, but thanks to her father's ridiculous need to fill out every branch of the McNally family tree, she knew quite a bit about Ireland and the Irish. Unlike most of the people she worked with, she knew the difference between the north and the south.

"Catholic, actually," William said. "Not that it matters."

Not to her, but it would to her mom. A nice, polite, good-looking, well-educated Catholic boy who knew how to hold a knife and a fork would be right up Helen McNally's alley.

Okay, wait a _goddamn_ minute.

She barely knew the man, had only just discovered his name. Why the _hell_ was she even thinking about whether her _mother_ would like him?

She knew why, and she didn't like it. She was twenty-nine years old, for Christ's sake. Shouldn't she be well past the point of seeking or wanting her parents' approval of her career and romantic choices?

She pushed the troubling question aside.

"My mom's ancestors were Scottish and French, but my dad's came to the States from County Mayo." She leaned forward to whisper to him, "My dad says it's because his great-great-granddaddy tried to burn down somebody's castle."

He leaned in himself to whisper back, "I promise I won't hold that against you."

Was she imagining things, or was he (very politely) hitting on her? Was it too soon to tell him she actually _wanted_ him to hold something against her? Like his whole, lean, muscular body?

If he turned out to be taken, she was going to go back to the office, lock herself in a bathroom, and cry…

The server reappeared. "Cobb Salad, extra cheese, vinaigrette dressing on the side?"

Michelle smiled and patted the table. "That's mine, thank you."

The server set the plate down and left. She paused to flip out her napkin and tackle some of her salad.

"So, how'd you end up in the States?" she asked, once she'd chewed a few mouthfuls of chicken and lettuce.

William frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You said you left Berlin when you were ten. What made you move to the States?"

He sighed and stabbed a chunk of potato. "It's, uh, it was kinda complicated."

She didn't have to be telepathic to know he was warning her to mind her own business. She took the hint and changed to a more neutral topic. "Are you enjoying your course?" she asked, picking at some bacon and egg.

"As much as any student can. I mean, I'm learning a lot, and I like the subject, but I'll be glad when it's over and done. I'm getting to the point where I'm gonna start writing papers in my sleep."

"I assume from the fact you're writing a paper right now that you're taking some courses over the summer?"

He nodded. "Trying to lighten the load for my final year, give me more time to focus on my thesis instead."

She couldn't fault him; she'd done the same thing. "Sensible."

"That's what I thought."

"You know what you're gonna write it about? Your final year thesis, I mean?"

He pushed some noodles onto his fork. "Not sure. Given my concentration, it'll have to be something to do with Eastern Europe. Maybe the expulsion of ethnic Germans from the Sudetenland after the end of World War Two. Or the Velvet Revolution. Or the Holodomor in Ukraine."

Sadly, she had no idea what any of those incidents were. "Not about this guy?" she asked, using her fork to point at the book.

He shook his head. "Not about Potemkin, no. He was a hell of a guy, but a little too aristocratic for my tastes. Think I'd rather focus on something that impacted ordinary people instead."

"You prefer nobodies to nobles?"

"Of course.” He grinned. “What kind of American would I be if I didn't?"

Her father and brother wouldn't like that. But given what kind of people her father and brother were, she considered that another point in her new acquaintance's favour.

"You said you graduated from Law School a few years back?" he asked.

"In ninety-six, yeah." 

"I'm assuming by now, you've passed the Bar exam as well?"

She nodded, feeling bad that he knew more about her area of study than she did about his. She needed to work on that—read something that wasn't either a legal brief or a crappy Tom Clancy novel. "In ninety-seven, yeah."

"Can I ask, in which state?"

She used the edge of her fork to cut a chunk of avocado in half. "At the moment, just here in DC," she said, popping one half in her mouth. "Once I have five years of work experience under my belt, I'll probably apply for admission to the Virginia Bar as well.”

"And I'm assuming you work near here."

She pointed a thumb over her shoulder. "A big corporate place a few blocks away."

"You like it there?"

"It's fine. Work's good, salary's great, most of the people are nice. Can be a bit soulless sometimes. Three owners, thirty-two partners, fifty-eight associates, interns and paralegals all over the place, so it's easy to get lost in the crowd."

"Do you _want_ to stand out from the crowd?"

She'd been asking herself that question for the last couple of years, and still wasn't sure what the answer was. "Not sure," she said. "I'm not trying to be the next Gloria Allred or Janet Reno, if that's what you mean. But I want to know I’m adding value, and that my bosses appreciate the work I do for them."

"You have a good boss?"

"Pretty good, yeah. Thinks just because she's a workaholic, everyone who works for her should be one as well. And she'll rip you a new one in a heartbeat if you make a mistake, especially in front of a client. But she has her good points as well. She doesn't tolerate gossip or all that stupid, high school, rivalry stuff, never tries to claim her employees' work as her own, and I've honestly learned more from her in the last four years than from all of my law school professors put together."

"So, if the company's good, and your boss is good, why didn't you want to have lunch at the office?"

"Sorry?"

"When you asked me if you could use the seat, you said you couldn't face having lunch back at the office."

_Damn_ , he was good.

She waved the question away; she didn't want to talk about Ian. "It's no big deal. Was just trying to avoid one of the people I work with."

"Woman or man?"

"Man."

His expression hardened. "Someone giving you trouble?"

"It's fine, really. He's mostly harmless,” she said, trying to convince herself as much as him. “Just a little bit sleazy. Nothing I can't handle."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

He nodded, satisfied with her answer. "Don't think I could ever be a lawyer myself," he said.

She speared some avocado and bacon. "What makes you say that?"

"All that courtroom stuff, giving inspirational speeches in front of judges and juries." He wrinkled his nose. "Not really my style."

Or hers, for that matter. "That's something you really only do if you're a litigator," she said. "And even then, only for a small percentage of your cases."

"So, you're never in court?"

"Never set foot in a court in my life." She grabbed the pepper to sprinkle some on the last of her chicken. "At least, not as a qualified lawyer. I sat in on a handful of cases during law school as part of my training, but only as an observer."

"Huh."

"It's a very common misconception. Most of the non-lawyer people I know think my life looks like something out of LA Law or Ally McBeal."

"You ever wish it did?" he asked.

"Not really, no." The only thing she had in common with Ally McBeal was a concern for the state of her biological clock, but that wasn't the kind of thing you shared with a man you'd only met fifteen minutes before.

"What's _your_ work background?" she asked, slicing up the last chunk of egg. "I mean, either you enrolled at the SFS as a mature student, or you're the oldest-looking twenty-one-year-old I've ever seen."

He tackled his final forkful of food, brought his cutlery together, placed it neatly on his plate and pushed the plate aside. "Your first guess is right. I'm twenty-nine."

The same age as her.

"What did you do before you enrolled? Were you in another career?"

"You could say that, yeah." He paused to wipe his mouth and finish his coffee. "I used to be a Marine."

That explained the neatly-cut hair and why he addressed Janelle as 'ma'am'. And never mind knowing one end of an ironing board from another—he could probably make a bed so well he would put a hotel housekeeper to shame.

"Officer?" she asked, trying to imagine what he would look like in his dress blues.

He shook his head. "Enlisted. But I made Sergeant by the time I was done."

"Is that good?"

"Pretty good, yeah. Four grades above where I started, almost as high as I could go in the time I put in."

"How long did you serve?"

"Including my time in Boot Camp, almost seven years."

"Why'd you leave?"

A corner of his mouth pulled up. "They didn't kick me out for being a bad boy, if that's what you're asking."

"You wouldn't have been offered a place at the SFS if they had." She knew from her former roommate that competition for SFS places was fierce. If he'd had any kind of black mark on his record, even the military equivalent of a light slap on the wrist, the admissions people would have turned him away.

He shrugged and sat back. "Was just time to do something else." He sighed; when he spoke again, it was in a quieter, almost sorrowful tone. "Things were kinda complicated at home around the time I finished high school. I knew I wanted to go on to college, but I wasn't ready to do it just then. Joining the Marines gave me something to focus on while I figured some other stuff out. Taught me some really important lessons as well."

"Oh, yeah? Like what?"

"Mostly, how to stop thinking only of my own needs and start thinking like part of a team. And nothing on earth teaches you how to prioritize and organize as well as having a job in the military."

"I remember someone on CNN saying people in the armed forces can do more before nine o'clock than the rest of us can do in a day."

"That's a diplomatic way to put it."

"You enjoy it? Your time in the Corps, I mean?"

"Wasn't all great, but some of it, yeah. Travelled to some beautiful places, met a lot of interesting people, made some really good friends."

"What kind of role were you in?"

"General Infantry first, then Embassy Security Guard."

She'd been to a US consulate once, years ago, while travelling with her parents in France, so she actually knew what that was. "So, you were one of the mean-looking guys who stands out at the front gate, giving idiot tourists the evil eye?"

"It's more than just front gate duty, but that's certainly a big part of the job."

"You ever see anything bad?" she asked. "Or, have any dangerous moments?"

Drily, he asked, "Does being shot count?"

"Someone _shot_ you?"

"When I was stationed in Yemen, yeah." He tapped his stomach above his right hip. "Took a through and through here."

"What's a through and through?"

"It's when a bullet goes all the way through and comes out the other side."

"So, it went in your stomach and came out your back?" she asked.

He nodded. "Gave me a beautiful matching set of scars."

She could only imagine what kind of damage that must have done. "So, no bikini for you that summer, huh?"

"Let's just say, it ruined my beach body look for a couple of years."

Given what she could see of his body, she found that hard to believe.

"Yemen," she murmured, running her mind through some maps. "That's next to Saudi Arabia, right?"

He nodded. "At the south end of the Arabian peninsula."

"You like it there?"

"Has a lot of socio-economic problems, but it's a beautiful country, and the people are some of the nicest I've ever met."

"Except for the guy who shot you," she pointed out.

He snickered. "Except for the guy who shot me, yeah. But he didn't kill me, and I'm pretty sure he was actually trying to shoot someone else, so I decided not to hold it against him."

"That's extremely gracious of you."

"Be pretty if you can, be witty if you must, but be gracious if it kills you," he quoted.

"Who said that?"

"No idea. Saw it on a poster in a copy store in Foggy Bottom."

"But it's not bad advice."

"I liked it enough to remember it. Not sure I can always be pretty or witty, but gracious is usually easy enough."

In her humble opinion, he was acing all three…

"Can I ask, where else you were stationed?" she asked.

"Austria first, then Israel, then Peru, then New Zealand, then Yemen."

She let out a wistful sigh. She'd travelled—probably more than most people—but there were still so many places she wanted to see, including most on his list. "Always wanted to go to New Zealand. _And_ Peru. Would love to visit Machu Pichu, fly over the Nazca lines."

"Didn't manage to see the lines, but I saw Machu Pichu."

"Did you hike in or take the train?"

"Took the train. Didn't have time to hike, wasn't like I needed the exercise."

"The Corps ran you pretty ragged, huh?"

"Not as ragged as the guys in some of the really specialized units, but we definitely had to stay in shape."

Given the way he filled out his shirt, a shape he didn't appear to have lost…

She chased some blue cheese onto her fork. "Do you think your time in service has helped you in any way with your course?"

"Certainly not with the essay writing, but being posted to so many different places has made it easier for me to understand some of the perspectives and concepts our professors discuss." He picked up his mug, frowned as he realized his coffee was done, quickly set it back down on the table. "Can't claim to be smarter than any of the students who came straight in from high school, but I've seen a bit more of the world than they have, have slightly more hands-on experience of how the world works, and how similar different groups of people can actually be."

"My aunt’s on the board of a couple of immigrant support groups through church. She says most people just want the same thing, to have a roof over their head, a job to go to, food in the cupboard, and for the people they love to be happy and safe."

"She's not wrong."

"Is that what you want?"

"More or less, yeah." He grinned. "Although, right now, I wouldn't mind having a widescreen plasma TV and a really nice car as well."

She rolled her eyes. "You boys and your expensive toys." Her younger brother was exactly the same, although it was usually hi-fi equipment with him.

"Right, yeah, cus women _never_ buy anything flashy."

"We certainly don't buy plasma TVs."

"My Oma raised me to be respectful of women, so for her sake, I won't ask you how many pairs of shoes you own."

She started to count, got to sixteen, decided he maybe made a good point…

She finished the last of her salad and pushed her plate aside. "What are you driving right now?" she asked.

"Right now, I'm the proud owner of a brand new monthly DC Transit Link card."

"No car, huh?"

"Don't really need one, couldn't afford one even if I did." She watched in amusement as he took her empty plate and neatly stacked it underneath his, combining their cutlery and used napkins on top. "You probably drive something nice. Something to show off all that flash lawyer money," he said, smiling to take the sting out of his words.

"Now I feel like you're judging me."

"Well, what do you drive?"

"A Mercedes."

He held his arms wide. "Your honour, the prosecution rests."

"It was a twenty-fifth birthday present from my parents," she protested.

"That's… not really helping?" he said, wincing.

She pretended to huff. "Not sure I like you any more, Mister Cooper."

"Does that mean you liked me to begin with?"

"For maybe a couple of minutes there, yeah."

"A couple is better than none."

He checked his watch.

The gesture made her heart sink. "You have to get back to class?" she asked, thinking that if he did, he had a fair way to go—this neighbourhood wasn't exactly Georgetown-adjacent.

"Kind of, yeah." He gestured out the window. "Not a class for my course, but I'm helping out at the language school across the street."

"Are you teaching people German?"

"I'm more of a classroom assistant than a teacher. German on Mondays, Russian on Thursdays."

"You speak Russian as well?"

"Uh huh."

"Fluently, I guess, if you're helping out in a class."

He smirked. "Olga would probably disagree, but I think so, yes."

Jesus. To say this guy had a lot going on was beginning to look like the understatement of the year. Born and partially raised in Berlin, enlisted in the Marines, studying at the SFS, and now he was teaching people _Russian_? "Am I allowed to ask where you learned to speak it?"

"You can ask, but the answer's kinda complicated."

"More or less complicated than why you moved from Berlin back to the States?"

He turned his hand back and forth. "About the same."

Which meant she should leave it alone.

"So, which one did you use for your language requirement at the SFS?" she asked.

"Russian."

"Any reason you chose it over German?"

His smile was sheepish. "The proficiency exam was in the afternoon."

"Sorry?"

"The German exam was at eight o'clock, and I'm not really a morning person."

"You're telling me you declared a language specialty for your degree based on _when you would have to get out of bed_?"

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Okay, but how can you _not_ be a morning person when you were in the Marines?"

"I'm not a morning person _because_ I was in the Marines," he told her. "Spent the best part of seven years getting out of bed at ass o'clock in the goddamn morning. Never doing it again unless there's a serious amount of money involved, or it's _literally_ a life or death matter." He frowned. "Are _you_ a morning person?" he asked.

She couldn't not be honest. "Um, actually, kind of, yeah."

"What time do you get out of bed?"

"Weekdays, I'm up at six. Weekends, usually around seven-thirty."

"Jesus," he muttered. "And you do that _willingly_? Not because somebody's shouting at you or offering you a million dollars?"

"It's just how I am."

"Well. Nobody's perfect, I guess."

A crashing sound came out of the kitchen. A few seconds later, somebody shouted something vicious-sounding in German.

William snickered.

"You understood that, right?" Michelle asked, pointing at the kitchen door.

Still grinning, he nodded. "Otto just called something a son of a bitch."

"What was the word he said?"

" _Hurensohn_ ," he said. "But it's a much stronger word in German, closer to the c-word in English, so don't _ever_ say it to someone unless you're really trying to insult them."

"You know Otto?"

"Not well, but if he's on the counter when I come in, I always make time for a chat."

"He's from Germany, right?"

William nodded. "From Regensburg, yeah. Why the sauerkraut's so good. He makes amazing reiberdatschi as well."

"Don't think I've ever had that."

"Potato pancakes. Similar to latkas or draniki."

"Should bring your grandmother here the next time she's in town."

He smiled softly. "Yeah, she, uh, she actually passed a few years ago."

"I'm sorry," she said, mentally kicking herself.

"Don't be. You didn't know."

"Should have occurred to me to ask you first. Shouldn't assume that just because all of mine are alive, that other people's are as well."

He pulled a packet of gum from his shirt pocket. "You still have all four?" he asked, offering the packet to her.

She held up a hand to decline. "I do, yes. All in their early eighties now, but they're still going strong."

"Good, sturdy Irish stock, right?"

She narrowed her eyes. "I hope you didn't just imply that I'm fat."

He blushed—a strangely endearing sight. "That's not what I meant."

Grinning, she waved him away. "I know it wasn't. I'm just ragging you. Consider it revenge for the comment about my car."

"I'd offer to buy you a slice of Linzertorte as an apology."

"Is it as good as the sauerkraut?"

"It's a cake, so it's even better."

She checked her watch. It was coming up on twelve forty-five. Jesus. Where the _hell_ had the last thirty-five minutes gone? Had they _really_ been talking that long? "I'd love to, but I need to be back at the office for one."

She swore she saw his shoulders slump slightly.

"That's too bad," was all he said.

"You have a class to go to as well," she pointed out, battling between wanting to stay to talk to the good-looking guy and wanting to be good at her job.

"Yeah, but not 'til one-thirty."

Strictly speaking, she didn't _need_ to be back by one—just at a time that would allow her to prep for the meeting with Martha and Nathan at two. And she didn't have that many files to review.

Fuck it.

As her mom was so fond of reminding her, God supplied the opportunities, but it was up to her to do something with them. And, sadly, opportunities involving smart, polite, good-looking men were increasingly thin on the ground.

"You know what? Screw the office. Let's have that cake," she said.

He looked at her askance. "You won't be in trouble for taking an extra-long lunch?"

"Shouldn't be. I'm one of their highest-earning associates. I put in _plenty_ of extra hours." And even if Martha _did_ bitch her out, that was her problem to deal with, not his.

He flashed an ovary-melting smile. "Okay, great. But I'll warn you now, they're pretty big slices."

"I'm down to share one if you are. I promise I won't take more than half, and that I don't have any weird germs."

"Works for me if it works for you." He rose from his seat, pulling his wallet from his back pocket. "Lemme go buy it, be right back." He took his empty mug and the stack of dishes with him.

He was back a couple of minutes later, carrying two forks, more napkins and a plate, which he placed in the middle of the table. The cake—a four inch wide, two inch deep wedge of an almond-covered, lattice crust pie with what looked like raspberry or redcurrant jam oozing out between the spaces—looked absolutely delicious. It would probably go straight to her hips, but right now, she didn't care. She would work it off at her yoga class later.

Just a pity she couldn't ask him to help her work it off in other ways…

He pushed the plate towards her. "Ladies first."

Grabbing a fork, she sliced off the point of the pie and popped it into her mouth. It melted onto her tongue as a perfectly balanced combination of fruit, pastry, almonds, cinnamon and sugar. "Oh, my God," she groaned, allowing her shoulders to slump. "That is to _die_ for."

Grinning, he took the next chunk of the wedge for himself. "Worth all the calories, right?"

"Who _cares_ about calories?"

"Did you know Linzertorte is supposed to be one of the oldest types of cake in the world?"

"Really?"

"They've apparently been making it since the fifteen- or sixteen-hundreds."

"For a former Marine, you know an awful lot about cakes."

He shrugged. "I'm a really big fan of baked goods."

"Sweet tooth, huh?"

"A little bit, yeah."

Which meant the quickest way to his heart was almost certainly through his stomach. She made a mental note to dig out her copy of _The Joy of Cooking_ later. If she played her cards right, she might end up with a good reason to dig out her other 'Joy of' book as well.

"Did your grandmother ever make Linzertorte for you?" she asked.

He shook his head. "She didn't like it cus it's Austrian. But she used to make an amazing chocolate cake instead."

"She had a problem with Austria?"

"Not the whole country." He flashed a sardonic smirk. "Just, uh, just with one Austrian guy in particular."

"Which guy?" she asked, then groaned and clapped a hand to her mouth as she realized who he meant. "Oh, God, right. _That_ guy."

" _That_ guy, yeah. He was raised near Linz. And my grandmother's mother was originally Jewish, so, you know…" He trailed off, leaving her to fill in the blanks.

And just when she'd thought his story couldn't get any stranger.

"So, your grandmother wouldn't approve of you eating this?" she asked, tapping on the cake.

"Not even remotely."

Grinning coyly, she asked, "Would she approve of you sharing it with me?"

He pursed his lips. "Not sure. Depends."

"On what?"

"Several things." He smiled, embarrassed. "She'd, uh, she'd want to know you were a nice, respectable Catholic girl."

"Catholic, yeah. On paper, at least. Can't remember when I was last in church. And I think I'm a pretty nice person." She flashed her brows. "Respectable's another matter." She used the side of her fork to carve out another piece of the cake.

He grinned as he claimed another chunk of his own. "So, you'd meet her religious requirements. And I already know you're educated, so you'd pass on that front as well." He paused to chew. "She was always a big supporter of education for women. She never had much time for the whole Kinder, Küche und Kurche thing."

"Sorry, the what?"

"Kinder, Küche und Kurche," he repeated. "Translates as children, kitchen and church. German way of saying a woman's place is in the home."

She winced. "I'm with your grandmother on that."

"You don't want kids?" he asked, sounding slightly surprised.

Jesus. Forty-five minutes in, and they were already onto the life-or-death questions. He would be asking her who she voted for next. Not that she wouldn’t tell him—she was long past the point of pretending to be something she wasn’t or to have beliefs she didn’t just to keep a man's ego happy. "Actually I do, with the right person and at the right time. I just don't want to give up being a fully-formed person in my own right just because I also become a wife and a mother."

He shook his head and heaved a theatrical sigh. "See, this is what happens when you let women vote. One day, they're in the kitchen, ironing shirts and happily making you dinner, the next day, they're getting all uppity on you, demanding to be allowed to have _jobs_ , and to be treated as people with full human rights."

She tapped her fork on the table. "You better be kidding, Sergeant."

" _Course_ I'm kidding," he said. "My Oma would literally come back from the dead to kick my ass from one end of The Mall to the other if I ever thought about a woman that way."

"Good. Cus if you'd been serious, I would have smashed the rest of this cake in your face."

He waved his fork at her. "For the record, better to just slap me instead. Never waste a nice cake."

"Duly noted." She took another piece and pushed what was left towards him. "You said your grandmother would approve of the fact I have an education."

"She would, yeah."

"Was that because she was never able to have one herself?" It was certainly the reason her own mom had been so supportive of her daughters' careers—she'd wanted them to have what circumstances (and her husband) had never allowed her to have.

"She went to college when she came to the States. But she trained as an artist. Was maybe an easier option for women back then than say, medicine or law."

"She must have been quite a lady."

His smile was sad. "The absolute best."

"You miss her?"

"Every day."

" _And_ her chocolate cake."

He snorted. " _I_ do, but my waistline doesn't."

It was interesting that he'd told her so much about his grandmother, and even a tiny snippet about his great-grandmother, but not a word about his mother. Or, his father, for that matter. Were mom and dad stuck in the 'complicated' box along with why he'd left Berlin and why he spoke fluent Russian? She was dying to know how all the pieces slotted together, but she got the sense he didn't like to talk about it.

"What about your family?" he asked, as if sensing her thoughts. "Are they all in DC?"

"My grandparents are in Florida and Phoenix, but my parents mostly live up in Greenwich." She didn't mention the three other homes—she knew it would lead him to wondering if she came from money, and she wanted to avoid that issue for now.

"That's in Connecticut, right?"

She nodded. "At the southwest end of the state. It's only an hour from New York by train."

"You see them much?"

"Not as much as I probably should."

He pretended to tsk. "Are you a wicked and inconsiderate daughter?"

"I'm an extremely good daughter, actually." She tapped on the plate. "But they're like Linzertorte. Best enjoyed occasionally, in small amounts, with someone else at the table to help you through it." Or, at least, her father was. Her mother was mostly okay.

He pushed the plate to her side of the table. "Speaking of helping, you have the last piece."

"You sure? Doesn't seem fair, since you paid for it."

"A lady's prerogative. I insist."

She happily polished off the last chunk. "I need to have cake more often."

He nodded agreement. "Whoever it was that said 'nothing tastes as good as skinny feels' has obviously never tried a freshly-baked snickerdoodle."

"Kate Moss,” she told him.

"Sorry?"

"It was Kate Moss who said that."

He frowned. "And who's she?"

"A supermodel."

That didn't seem to help. "So, someone who never eats?" he asked.

"Probably."

"Figures."

"You don't like skinny women?"

"Not if they're skinny because they never eat."

"As a man smarter than me once said, 'There is no love sincerer than the love of food.'"

"Oscar Wilde?" he guessed.

"George Bernard Shaw."

"God bless Irish writers and poets."

"Amen to that."

She checked the time as she set down her fork. One on the nose. She _really_ needed to get back to the office.

"Thank you for dessert," she said.

"My pleasure. Glad you enjoyed it. Next time, we'll try the Frankfurt Crown Cake instead."

Every cell in her body simultaneously burst into flames. Was he just being polite, or did he really want to see her again? She wasn't quite sure how to respond. He was cute, and funny, and generous, and more importantly, he didn't seem like a serial killer. And he hadn't mentioned a girlfriend or wife, so she was pretty sure he wasn't taken. Should she ask him for his number? Or, wait to see if he asked for hers? She liked him, but she didn't want him to think she was pushy. Maybe she should leave it for now, and 'accidentally' wander in for lunch again at the same time on Monday…

Why the hell were dating decisions _never_ easy? Or, to be more specific, never easy for her? Her younger sister, Kate, seemed to manage just fine. She worked her way through good-looking men the same way most people worked their way through hot meals or cell phone credits.

She smiled at him, William smiled back.

Silence.

Dammit.

Michelle sighed as she rose from her seat. "It was lovely to meet you, William. And as much as I'd love to stay here chatting and eating cake all day, I _really_ need to get back to the office. No rest for the wicked, or for associate copyright lawyers."

He rose to hold out his hand. "Was really nice to meet you, too."

She shook the hand, silently screaming at him to ask for her number. She would give him every number she had—her date of birth, her home address, her LSAT scores, her ATM PIN and maybe even her bra size as well.

Her heart soared as he cleared his throat. But all he said was, "Hope you have a good afternoon."

She didn't know what to do. Kate would brazen it out, bluntly ask him straight to his face if he wanted to see her again. But she wasn't Kate. Bluntness wasn't in her nature, especially when it came to men.

"Thanks, I will," she said, smiling warmly while dying inside. But what if he was as nervous about this stuff as her? What if he wanted to ask for her number, but he wasn't sure if _she_ was single, or if asking her was the right thing to do? In which case, some gentle prompting might be all he needed? "I come in here at least once a week, so, uh, maybe we'll see each other around?"

He smiled. "Maybe, yeah."

So much for that.

She'd done what she could; his message was clear. So, before he could say another word, and before she started crying tears of frustration, she turned on her heels and walked away.

Nobody noticed her late return.

Nobody except Ian, that was. As she made her way back to her desk, rushing past the half-open door to Martha Wilson's sunny office, he popped up from behind a partition like an officious, annoying jack-in-the-box, raised his brows, tapped his watch and made a show of slowly shaking his head, letting her know her tardiness had been noted. She answered with an ice-cold smile and her most convincing 'fuck off and mind your own business' glare. The man really needed to get the message. She wasn't remotely attracted to him, didn't want to have dinner with him, wouldn't lower herself to have sex with him even if his was the last functioning penis on the whole planet.

She tossed her purse in her bag, pulled out her seat, sat down and logged back into her desktop computer. She scanned her Inbox, checking for urgent e-mails, made sure the message light on her phone wasn't flashing and turned her attention to her files to start making some notes.

Forty-two minutes later, the only thing she'd managed to write was William Cooper's name.

Thirty-eight goddamn times.

She jumped as somebody cleared their throat behind her.

"Miss McNally, please join us in the conference room whenever you're ready," Martha Wilson stiffly said.

Miss McNally. Not Michelle.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

Heart pounding, Michelle shot up from her chair, grabbing her pen and bundle of files. "Of course, yes. My apologies. I lost track of time. Sorry. I'll be right there."

Martha smiled, but in an icy, tight-lipped way that warned Michelle she was in for a verbal reaming later. The company's senior founding partner wasn't known for being a patient or lenient woman. When _she_ organized a meeting, she expected everyone to be in the room and waiting for her before she arrived. The fact she'd had to come looking for one of her senior associate lawyers would have been duly noted.

Oh, boy. This was going to be a long afternoon.

Now, if she could just figure out how to spend it thinking about her work, instead of the tall, dark and handsome man she'd just met…

Two hours later, Michelle stumbled back to her desk.

Martha had more than made her pay for her slip, interrupting her whenever she spoke, dismissing her ideas out of hand and questioning her every contribution to the conversation. Michelle could take a professional pummeling as well as the next guy—confrontation and heated debates were part and parcel of being a lawyer—but that didn't mean she enjoyed it when it happened.

Ian strolled up to hang over the side wall of her desk. "The old lady's really on your case today, huh?"

Michelle dropped into her seat. "It's fine," she said, refusing to turn to look at him, trying her best to sound nonchalant. "She's just pissed cus I was late for the meeting. She'll be back to her usual sunny self tomorrow." Or, at least, what counted as 'sunny' for Martha.

"If you need some TLC to help with the bruises, I'd be happy to take you out for a drink after work," Ian offered. "We could go to The Nash, order some oysters and a few of their old-fashioned Bellinis."

Right now, she would give her right arm for one of The Nash's old-fashioned Bellinis. But she knew from previous experience that a couple of drinks with Ian would be nowhere near as nice as he made it sound. Sure, he would be Mister Charming Manners at first, but as soon as he had a second drink in him, the wandering, octopus hands would come out and the lecherous innuendo would start. She'd briefly fallen for it once, back in her first month with the firm, she sure as hell wasn't falling for it again.

"I'm sorry, I can't," she said, stabbing the keys to unlock her computer.

He walked around to hang over her front wall instead. "Don't see why not. Heard you tell Lena in the kitchen this morning you were planning to have a quiet night in." He flashed an unctuous smile. "And I'm pretty sure you're not seeing anyone right now, so not like going out for a drink with me would be cheating."

On a boyfriend, no. On all of sane, sensible womankind, yes.

"I made plans for tonight over lunch," she lied. Then, before she could stop herself, "And actually, I _am_ seeing someone right now." She lifted her chin as she spoke, looking him right in the eye. It was the only way to get rid of him—make him believe she was out of the game instead of just not willing to play.

His smile slipped, revealing a petulant flash of irritation. "Really?"

Her own smile was cold, but polite. "Yes, really."

"And what's the lucky guy's name?"

Think, Michelle, think.

"William," she blurted. "William Cooper."

Ian looked at her askance. "Oh, yeah? And what does William Cooper do?"

She'd already unravelled the rope, she might as well go the whole way and hang herself with it. Besides, sticking to a cover story she knew was true would make it easier to remember later. "He's a student, taking the International History degree at the SFS, heading into his final year."

"Shelly McNally, associate trademark and copyright lawyer, cradle-snatcher extraordinaire."

"Don't call me Shelly," she bluntly told him for what felt like the five-hundredth time. "And I'm _not_ a cradle-snatcher. He's a mature student, the same age as me."

"Can't be much of a thinker if it took him until he was twenty-nine to make it into a decent school."

"The only reason it took him until he was twenty-nine to make it into a decent school is because he was in the Marines for seven years first."

"You're dating a _jarhead_?" Ian asked, saying the word as if he meant 'paedophile' or 'serial killer'.

"I am, yeah. A tall, intelligent, funny, kind, good-looking, trilingual jarhead."

Ian snickered. "So, he's a cunning linguist, then?"

She should have known better than to respond to his jibes. No matter what she said or how sincerely she said it, he would always have a spitefully smarmy comeback ready. She picked up her files to slam them down on the other side of her desk. "Ian, could you do me a massive favour, and _please_ just fuck off?"

Ian shrugged and backed away from the wall, no doubt sensing from her frustration that he'd won their final battle, even if he'd lost the overall war. "Okay, well, you enjoy your night out." Smirking, he added, "But don't come crying to me if your jarhead turns out to be a dud."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Ian shows just how much of an asshole he is, Michelle needs to find William Cooper again, and quickly...

**Thursday July 26th, 2001**

Ian's mother should never have taught him to speak, Michelle decided as she stormed through the door.

If his mother had never taught him to speak, he wouldn't have opened his useless, cretinous mouth to make the worst possible comment to the worst possible person at the worst possible time. The sheer _gall_ of the man, casually telling her co-workers things about her private life he had absolutely no right to tell them. She wanted to strangle him with her bare hands.

Although, to be fair, Ian might have pulled the trigger, but she'd handed him the ammunition and shown him how to load the gun. If she'd kept her own mouth shut last Thursday after the horror meeting with Martha, and found another, less deceitful way to deter his unwanted advances, he wouldn't have been able to share the information he'd just so egregiously shared.

She scanned the tables in the café's main room, but there was no sign of William Cooper. Her heart dropped into her feet. Today was Thursday—one of the two days of the week William had told her he came here for lunch—and the work barbecue thing was on Sunday. If she couldn't find her would-be boyfriend today, she was _fucked_.

She leaned out to check the tables down at the side, and almost wept with joy as she spotted the man she'd come here to find, nursing a steaming mug of coffee, sitting in the same chair as before. He was wearing a casual, printed t-shirt today, sporting a couple of days worth of stubble, and curiously, reading a much smaller book. Either he'd given up on the doorstop-sized bio, or he could read as fast as most people talked. She rushed to the table, and without waiting for him to see her, slipped into the opposite seat.

His head whipped up in alarm. As he realized who his visitor was, his alarm morphed into a welcoming smile. "Hey," he said. "You're back. Missed you on Monday. Was wondering if I might see you again."

In less pressing circumstances, his words would have made every nerve in her body scream. But she didn't have time for flirting or romance today. "I'm back," she said. "And I _really_ need your help."

His smile dropped. "What's wrong?" he asked, swiftly setting his book aside.

She rubbed her face. "It's a really long story," she told him from behind her hands.

"You can tell me about it while you have lunch." He frowned at her. "You ordered some food, right?"

She shook her head. "Right now, I'm far too stressed and angry to eat."

"That's not good. Can I at least get you something to drink?"

"Is it too early for wine?"

He winced. "That bad, huh?"

She nodded glumly; she wanted to cry.

"Are you allowed to have alcohol during office hours?"

That was the problem. "Yeah, but only if it's a lunch with a client." And even then, only if the client ordered some first.

"Okay, so that's a 'no' on the wine, but let's get you some tea or coffee instead."

As he spoke, he rose from his seat.

Dammit, now he was making a fuss. Which was nice, but also completely unnecessary. She was angry and stressed, not about to go into labour, or on the verge of a nervous collapse. She was perfectly capable of buying and fetching her own cup of tea.

She pushed up from her chair, laying a restraining hand on his arm. "No, it's okay, you don't have to do that, please, let me go buy it myself."

"Sit," he ordered, glaring at her, pointing at the chair. "I'm buying you tea. Don't argue with me. I'll be right back."

"Yes, sir," she said, meekly sitting again. "Chamomile, if they have it?" she called out as he strode away.

He was back barely a minute later, carrying a china mug with a teabag label on a string hanging over the side. "Chamomile, just like you asked," he said, carefully setting the mug on the table.

"Thank you." She grabbed the string to dunk the bag, encouraging the tea to brew.

"Don't know how you can even drink that stuff," William said, nodding at the mug as he reclaimed his chair. "Tried it once, swear it tastes like ass." His eyes went wide and he blushed so hard she actually laughed out loud, causing some nearby heads to turn towards them. "Not that I have _any_ idea what ass tastes like," he hastily added. "But I'm pretty sure chamomile tea's as close as it gets."

Still grinning, she shook her head. "Oh, man, I needed that."

"Glad I could help." He took a gulp of his coffee. "So, what's this terrible problem you have?"

She sighed as she swirled her tea, trying to decide where and how to start. "You remember when we had lunch last week, I told you there was a guy at the office I was trying to avoid?"

He nodded. "You said he was mostly harmless, but a little bit sleazy."

"Turns out he's not as harmless as I thought."

"What'd he do?"

She needed to tell him the backstory first. "He's been hitting on me pretty much every week since I joined the firm. He's always asking me to go out for drinks, or to have dinner with him, and he doesn't know how to take 'no' for an answer."

William's expression turned cold and hard. "Give me the asshole's address, I'll pay him a visit, teach him exactly what 'no' means."

"His latest attempt was last Thursday," she said, trying to decide if she should be pleased or alarmed by his offer. "One of the senior partners had just ripped me a new one in a meeting, I was flustered and a little upset, so he caught me with my defenses down. Instead of telling him to beat it, I panicked. When he offered to take me out to dinner, I told him I couldn't, because I was dating someone."

He jerked back from the table as if he'd been stung. "You have a boyfriend?" he asked, frowning slightly.

"No, I don't. But it was the only way to get Ian off my back."

His shoulders relaxed. "So, now, this Ian guy thinks you have a boyfriend you don't actually have."

"Which wouldn't be a problem if he wasn't the biggest blabbermouth on the whole planet."

He grunted. "Lemme guess. He told everyone else in your office."

"Worse than that. It's the company's annual summer party on Sunday, and everyone's allowed to bring their partners and children with them. The owners want to encourage this whole, I dunno, family atmosphere thing." She raised her cup to take a sip. The hot liquid burned her tongue; she set the cup down to wait for the contents to cool. "Martha stopped by my desk this morning to tell me she was looking forward to meeting my new beau. Her words, _not_ mine."

"Who's Martha?"

"Martha Wilson. My boss. One of the firm's three founding partners."

He winced. "Ouch."

"Exactly."

"So, this Ian guy didn't just blab, he blabbed to the worst possible person?"

She heaved a sigh. "The asshole went straight to the top." Ian's second-best talent after being a sleazy prick—always knowing _exactly_ who to share information with, and when, and in a way that would cause the most damage. The man was wasting his time in law. With a talent for shit-stirring like that, he should have become a tabloid news reporter instead.

"So, now, if you turn up to the work thing on your own, he's gonna wonder if you were telling the truth."

"Not just him. Maybe some other people as well."

"Why's that?"

She set her elbows on the table, leaned forward and her fingers through her hair to massage her scalp, trying to fend off the headache she knew was coming. "Ian's a sleazebag, but he's a persuasive sleazebag." She didn't say 'charming'—that was going too far. "He knows how to manipulate people, _and_ he's a really good liar."

"He _is_ a lawyer," William noted.

She raised her head to spear him with the mother and father of all dirty glares.

"Sorry," he said, showing a sheepish grin. "Was too easy, couldn't resist." His expression turned pensive again. "Is he telling people lies about _you_?"

"Kinda, yeah." She tested her tea; it had cooled enough. She took a quick gulp, wishing it had a finger of whisky in it. "He's telling everyone in the office I have a new boyfriend, but also kind of insinuating I'm imagining things and making him up."

"Which… you are?" William delicately pointed out.

"It was just to keep Ian off my back," she said, desperately wanting him, of all people, to understand and be on her side. "But he's twisting it, trying to use what I told him to show me up, to make a fool of me in front of the whole office."

"Seems a little bit vindictive."

"Vindictive's Ian's middle name. He's trying to teach me a lesson"—she made quote marks with her fingers—"punish me for not giving him what he wants."

"And what he wants is for you to date him."

"Or, to have sex with him."

"Don't see how _harassing_ you is gonna persuade you to have sex with him, but maybe he knows something about women I don't."

She snorted. "I doubt it."

"So, what happens if you turn up at this work thing on your own on Sunday?"

"Best case scenario, nobody cares, but Ian treats it as a green light to start hitting on me again. Worst case scenario, everyone takes it as proof that Ian was right, so I look like a lying, delusional fool in front of all my co-workers and bosses."

He drummed his fingers on the table. "Have you thought about reporting him to your boss?"

"It's not that easy."

"Sure it is."

"No, it's not," she insisted. "We're a _law firm_ , remember? They'd expect me to provide evidence of his behaviour. Which I don't have, so it would be my word against his. He'd probably get off scot-free, and I'd end up marked as a troublemaker." If that happened, she could kiss goodbye to her partner promotion. "And I'm pretty sure my boss would just tell me to suck it up and grow a thick skin. She's old school. She thinks the best way for a woman to succeed in a man's world is by being twice as good and working twice as hard."

"That doesn't seem very fair."

"Who the hell said life was fair?"

"It's a law firm. They should at least _try_."

She could feel her patience beginning to fray. "Okay, well, how did it work when you were in the Corps? Were _they_ always fair? Could _you_ have complained about being bullied or harassed without suffering any negative consequences? Or, would they have told you to suck it up?"

"They would have told me to suck it up," he admitted. "The Corps has rules for stuff like that, but they don't always enforce them as well as they should."

"Well, it's pretty much the same where I work. Just because they _say_ they'll take action on harassment doesn't mean they actually _will_."

He sighed. "So, reporting Ian isn't an option."

"Not unless he does something really terrible, no."

He leaned in over the table. "If you ask me nicely, I'll kill him for you." He said it so calmly, with such a straight face she couldn't tell if he was joking.

"Half of me wants to ask if you're kidding, but half of me _really_ wants to take you up on your offer." And not just for her own sake—for the good of every woman in the metropolitan DC region. She couldn't be the only person suffering from an excess of Ian's unwanted attentions.

"I'm kidding," he said, smiling to back up his claim. "But I'm guessing from the fact you came looking for me today that you think there's another way I can help."

She sipped her tea, stalling for time, trying to figure out how to word her request.

"You want me to be your date on Sunday," he guessed.

"Please?" she pleaded. "I know it's an awful lot to ask, but you'll honestly be saving my skin."

He leaned back, eyes wary, crossing his arms. "Why me?"

"What?"

"A girl like you must know a whole bunch of really nice guys. Why'd you come to me?"

"Woman," she corrected.

"Sorry?"

"I'm the same age as you," she said. "I haven't been a _girl_ for more than ten years. The word you're looking for is _woman_."

Smiling, he dipped his head to acknowledge his error. "Okay, but my question still stands. Why's a _woman_ like you coming to a guy like me?"

Now, for the really difficult part. She just hoped he didn't hear what she had to say and decide to immediately file a restraining order against her. If she was him, she probably would. "Because when I panicked and told Ian I had a boyfriend, that wasn't the only thing I told him."

"Oh?"

"He asked me what my boyfriend's name was, and what he does for a living."

His eyes narrowed. "Uh huh?"

"And you and I had just shared this _wonderful_ lunch—"

"—so you panicked again and gave him my name," he concluded.

"I’m _really_ sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to drag you into my mess. It honestly just popped out."

His expression told her he didn't approve.

So much for thinking he would be willing to help. She'd done what she could; she would have to face the mess she'd made with Ian alone. She pushed her tea aside and stood up to leave, trying to think of an efficient way to say 'goodbye' and 'sorry' at the same time.

He frowned. "You're leaving?"

She froze. "Don't you want me to leave?"

"Why the hell would I want you to leave?"

"You looked really pissed. I assumed you weren't willing to help me, didn't think there was anything else to say."

"That's just how I look when I'm thinking."

If that was true, he had the worst case of Resting Bitch Face she'd _ever_ seen. "So, you're not angry about what I did?"

"Course not." He grinned. "If anything, I'm kinda flattered."

Goddamn fucking _men_. They were all as goddamn bad as each other.

She reclaimed her seat and her mug. "Does that mean you're willing to help me?"

"Who better to help when you need to show up at a work party with a boyfriend called William?"

Time to come _completely_ clean. "A boyfriend called William who's taking the International History course at the SFS, and who used to be a Marine," she added, steeling herself for the worst.

His brows shot up. "Jesus, you even told him _that_?"

And now she felt like total shit. She wanted the ground to open up and swallow her whole. "Yeah."

"What the hell else did you tell him?"

She stared at her tea; she couldn't bring herself to look at his face. Maybe some ego stroking would help. "That you speak three languages, and you're smart, funny, kind and good-looking."

"Well, you're not wrong there. Especially the good-looking part."

She balled up her napkin and threw it at him.

"Sorry," he said with a loin-stirring smile. "Couldn't resist that one either."

She took another gulp of her tea. "The worst part of it is, Martha's husband was in the Marines, he served three tours in Vietnam. She says he really wants to meet you. I'm already in her bad books because of the way I messed up last week. I _really_ need to mend fences with her."

He sighed and leaned back. "I'll help you, but it's gonna cost you."

Disgust threatened to overwhelm her. He wasn't nicer and more decent than Ian—he was just better at hiding the sleaze. "If you're expecting sex, you're barking up the wrong tree," she warned. She liked him, wanted to get to know him better, and yes, maybe let him take her to bed, but for the right reasons and at the right time.

He scrunched his face. "Who the hell said anything about _sex_?"

"You _don't_ want sex?"

"Course I don't. I mean, I _like_ it and all, don't get me wrong, but I'm not about to _extort_ it from you."

"So, what the hell _did_ you mean?" she asked, flapping her hands in frustration. Surely he didn't want money instead?

Smiling, he leaned forward to say, "I was just gonna make you buy me some cake."

"Cake?" she repeated.

He nodded. "I thought we could share a slice of the Herrentorte. I talked to Otto when I came in, he told me he just made it this morning. You'll _love_ it, I promise."

Cake. Not sexual favours or money.

She buried her face in her hands again. "I'm such an idiot," she whimpered.

"Nah, you're fine," he said, waving her off. "The guy I worked with in Peru who didn't clear his weapon before he cleaned it, _he_ was an idiot. You're just not thinking straight cus you're hungry and stressed."

"What happened to the guy?"

"He shot himself, lost the last two fingers on his left hand."

"Okay, yeah, I'm not _that_ stupid."

"You wouldn't have made it through Georgetown Law and the DC Bar if you were."

She snorted. "Don't be so sure about that. One of the guys in my Bar prep course thought it was perfectly legal to draft up a tenancy contract which excluded families and people of colour."

"Ouch."

"That's one way to put it." She checked her watch—she still had plenty of time. "You _really_ want me to buy you some cake?"

"Buy _us_ some cake," he corrected. "I ate lunch already, was just giving it time to go down before I decided what to have for dessert." He jabbed a finger at her. "And you need to eat something. Even if it's only sugar and sponge."

Right on cue, her empty stomach growled.

She sighed. "Okay, one slice of…"

"Herrentorte," he repeated.

"One slice of Herrentorte coming right up."

She took another mouthful of tea, rose from her seat and strode back to the counter. Fortunately, the cashier today wasn't Janelle. Not that she didn't want to talk to her friend, but she knew Janelle would want to know who she was having the slice of cake with, and she didn't have the energy to go through the whole, ridiculous story right now.

"Hey, what can I get for you?" the cashier guy asked.

She flashed him a smile. "Hi, yeah, uh, I'll have a slice of the Herrentorte, please?"

"Sure thing." He grabbed a plate and strode to the fridge with the pastries and cake, opening the door on the far side.

"Oh, and any chance I can have two forks with that?"

"You sharing with someone?"

She nodded.

The cashier grinned. "I'll make it a slightly larger slice, then." He leaned over the counter to whisper, "Just don't tell the boss."

She flipped a salute. "My lips are sealed, I promise."

As the cashier prepped the cake, she cast her eyes over the row of bottles arranged on a ledge along the back wall.

"Those are all liqueurs, right?" she asked, gesturing at the containers. "Those bottles up there?"

"Digestifs and aperitifs, yeah."

"Any of them German?" she asked. Or, since this was Thursday, would Russian be better?

"Couple of 'em, yeah."

He came back to the till to set the plate with her slice of cake on the counter. Just looking at it made her mouth water. "You wanna try one of 'em?" he asked, going to stand by the shelf, ready to pull a bottle at her command.

The morning she'd had, you bet she did. "I do, yeah. Any recommendations?"

"This one's pretty nice," he said, pointing at a chubby, black-capped bottle full of an amber liquid. "It's called Barenjaeger, it's pretty much a honey-flavoured vodka."

So, German and Russian at the same time. Perfect.

"I'll take two, please."

"Singles or doubles?"

"Just singles, thanks." As attractive as a double sounded, she _did_ have to go back to work. Whatever trouble she was currently in, she would be in even more if she fell asleep at her desk and started drooling all over her files.

The cashier grabbed the bottle, poured out two one-ounce shots, then fetched a tray from under the counter, on which he placed the glasses and the plate with the cake. He grabbed two pudding forks from a drawer and turned to the till to ring up her cheque. "That'll be twelve sixty-five," he said.

She pulled a ten and four singles out of her purse and laid them on the counter. "Keep the change," she said. She picked up the tray to head back to the table, pausing on the way to grab some napkins from a dispenser.

William's brows rose as he saw the tray. "The hell is that?" he asked, pointing at the shot glasses.

"Something called Barenjaeger," she said. She set the cake, the napkins and the forks on the table between them, placed one shot glass in front of him and kept the other one for herself.

He gave her a wary look. "Thought you said you couldn't drink at lunch unless you were with a client."

She waved him off. "It's just a shot to help with my nerves. Nobody at the office will know."

" _You'll_ know."

She glared at him as she reclaimed her seat.

He held up his hands, palms facing out. "Don't glare at me. You're the one who took the Bar, not me. What does your Code of Professional Conduct say?"

He was right—it _was_ a professional ethics issue. Fortunately, one with a simple and inexpensive solution.

"Gimme a dollar," she said, making a 'hand it over' gesture.

"What?"

"A _dollar_. You know. One of those paper things with a cute picture of Washington on it."

Frowning, he brought out his wallet to thumb through the notes. He pulled out a dollar bill and threw it onto the table.

She grabbed it and held it up to show it to him. "This is my retainer. Congratulations. You just hired me, so now you're my client." She folded up the dollar bill and stuck it in her purse, making a mental note to print him a proper customer invoice later. Smiling sweetly, she sipped on her tea.

He chuckled and shook his head. "You're wasted as a lawyer, you know. Creative thinking like that, you should've become a politician instead."

"Thought about it, but I wasn't sure I could deal with the lying."

"So, you became a _lawyer_?"

She slammed her mug down. "Okay, are all ex-Marines this mouthy, Mister Cooper, or is it just you?"

He grinned. "Pretty sure it's mostly just me."

She pulled the plate with the Herrentorte towards her. "Just for that, I'm having the first piece of the cake."

She took a moment to inspect the cake first. It looked amazing. Six, no seven thin layers of white sponge with some kind of cream or paste filling between them, covered in a hard ganache shell, with a real, chocolate-dipped cherry on top.

Using her fork, she sliced an inch off the point, straining to break through the chocolate coating. The slice toppled onto the plate; she carved off an inch-wide chunk, stabbed it with her fork and popped it into her mouth. "Oh, _God_ ," she groaned, closing her eyes to make the most of the rich, luscious flavour. "That's even better than the last one."

William pulled the cake towards him to claim an equally generous slice. "When I was stationed at the US embassy in Vienna, the Kuchenladen a few blocks away made an amazing orange chocolate version. I swear, by the time I left the post, I'd eaten my whole body weight in it."

"What's the filling?" she asked, using her fork to point at one of the creamy layers.

"It's usually wine cream." He snickered. "Knowing Otto, he probably put half a bottle of Riesling in it."

That explained the slight nectarine flavour.

"What does Herrentorte mean?"

"Gentlemen's Cake." He tapped the ganache with his fork. "The theory is, the chocolate in the shell's so dark and bitter only a man would want to eat it."

She snorted. "The guy who came up with that theory has obviously never met most women." She carved off another chunk of her toppled section. "Did your grandmother ever make you this?" she asked, remembering the stories he'd told her last week.

"On special occasions, yeah. She hated making it, though."

"Why's that?"

"Cus the recipe's a pain in the ass. Needs a ton of ingredients, and the layers are a lot of work."

She scooped up another forkful, finishing the piece she'd carved out. "William, can I ask a rather personal question?"

He hesitated, then said, "Sure."

"You told me your German grandmother was on the maternal side."

"Uh huh?"

"So, she was your mother's mother."

A muscle in his jaw twitched. "That's right."

"So, um, did your mom ever bake German cakes or pastries for you as well?"

He picked at his cake for a few seconds, then set down his fork to swirl and finish his coffee. "When, uh, when we were kids in Berlin, sometimes, yeah."

One word of that sentence jumped out. " _We_?" she repeated. "So, you had a brother or sister, then?"

The pain and anger that briefly flashed in his eyes told her she'd wandered onto dangerous ground. He sighed, then smiled, but she could see he didn't really mean it. "I, uh, if you don't mind, I'd rather not talk about that. Why don't we talk about this company party thing instead?"

She didn't have to be warned twice. "It's gonna be at Mister Geller's place," she said.

"Who's Mister Geller?"

"David Geller. He's like Martha, one of the company's three founding partners."

"So, a big kahuna, then?"

"The second biggest." Only Martha was more important. "The owners take turns to host, and this year's his turn." She hadn't made it to last year's event at Martha's house—she'd 'inconveniently' been on vacation in Spain at the time.

"And where does he live?"

"He's up in Van Ness. Or Forest Hills. Whatever you want to call it. Beautiful place, mock-Tudor style, set on almost an acre. Plenty of room for garden parties."

"Van Ness?" he repeated. "That's a nice part of town. Must've cost him a penny or six."

"Don't think he and his wife are lacking for cash."

"What time's the party start?"

"One for one-thirty, done by five." She thought of a potential block. "Can you make that? You don't have to study or deal with some coursework instead?"

He claimed another chunk of the cake. "I probably should, but that's okay. I'm pretty organized, so well ahead of all my essay deadlines. Won't hurt me to take an afternoon off."

"I'll drive us," she said, trying to sweeten the deal. "Then, you can have a drink."

He smiled, and to her profound relief, this time, the smile was real. "Just one, though, right? No shotgunning a six pack of beer and falling into the water feature."

"Yeah, please don't do that."

"Don't worry. I promise I'll be the _perfect_ date."

The way he said it made her slightly suspicious. "What's your definition of perfect?"

"I'll dress well, bring a nice gift, laugh at all the Geller guy's jokes, tell his wife how lovely she looks, but in a completely non-threatening way, of course, compliment them on their house, be all witty and charming in three languages at the same time. I'll hang on Martha's every word, ask her husband about his time in the Corps, swap Boot Camp horror stories with him. Oh, and I'll passive-aggressively step on this Ian asshole as much as I can." He shrugged. "Or, maybe just aggressive-aggressively. Let's see how it plays out."

She wanted to kiss him—that sounded _exactly_ right. Especially the Ian part. If the asshole thought he could use what she'd said to trip her up in front of her co-workers and boss, he was in for an unpleasant surprise. "Some people will be bringing their kids. You okay with that?"

"Course." He snickered. "You let me _really_ go to town, I'll ask to hold the babies, tell all the single women at the party how much I'm looking forward to settling down and having a couple of rugrats myself."

She held up a hand. "Okay, Sergeant, ease off the gas. Let's not get _too_ carried away."

"We'll have one of each, I think." He frowned and pursed his lips. "Or, maybe two girls. Boys are a _shitload_ of trouble."

"Stop talking, please," she pleaded.

To no avail. "Oh, and just so you know, when the time comes, we're gonna buy a place southwest of the river," he said. "So, you'll definitely want to apply for admission to the Virginia Bar as well." He wrinkled his nose. "We're not going to Maryland. If we live in Maryland, I'll have to cheer for the Orioles and the Ravens. Fuck that."

She set down her fork to lay her head in her hands. "Why are you such a _terrible_ person?"

"If I'm so terrible, why the hell are you dating me?"

"We're not dating." At least, not yet.

He tsk'd and shook his head. "You keep thinking like that, you're gonna blow your whole cover story. You wanna convince people, you gotta _be_ the lie."

"Did you learn that in the Marines?"

To her surprise, he nodded. "If I had a dollar for every bald-faced lie the Marine Corps told me, I could've paid all four years of my school tuition upfront. 'I think you can get a waiver for that', my ass," he muttered.

"Might not want to bring that up with Martha's husband," she warned.

"Don't see why not. The lies were probably even worse when he served."

His fictional plans for their 'future' aside, it sounded as if they were ready to go. But the lawyer in her had to be sure. "So, you'll do all this for me, and all I have to do in return is buy you this piece of cake?" she asked, retrieving her fork to carve off another small wedge. "There's nothing else you want me to do?"

"Actually, now you mention it, there is."

"What's that?" Not sex—they'd already talked about that.

With a shy smile, he said, "I'd, uh, I'd kinda like for us to go on a date."

"We're already going on a date."

"Not a fake date. An _actual_ date."

"You mean, like, out for dinner, or something?"

"Dinner, a movie, a walk in the park." His smile widened. "I, uh, I was gonna ask you at lunch last week, couldn't quite summon the courage. Was _kicking_ myself for the rest of the day."

"You weren't the only one."

"Oh, so you—"

"—wanted you to ask me for my number?" She nodded. "All the time we were sitting here with the Linzertorte, I was silently _screaming_ at you to ask."

"I didn't want you to think I was pushy."

"I wouldn't have thought that. I was the one who crashed your table, remember?"

"Sorry," he said, looking like a wounded puppy.

"Don't worry about it. The important thing is, we're here again now."

He took a deep breath. "So, can I take you out on a date? Or, if it's easier, on a study session?"

"What the _hell_ do we need to study?"

He smirked. "How about each other?"

" _Sorry_?"

"Think about it." He scooped another mouthful of cake. "How convincing do we need to be on Sunday?"

"Convincing enough to fool a house full of lawyers."

"And how hard is that gonna be, given how observant most lawyers are, and how little we actually know about each other?"

Now, his meaning was clear. "You think we should spend some time together to fill in the gaps." So they could both put on a more realistic performance, leave her co-workers in no doubt about just how 'together' she and her fake boyfriend were.

"Yeah. I mean, how long does everyone at your firm think we've been dating?"

She felt her cheeks flush. "A couple of months."

"And how much would a new couple find out about each other in that time?"

She could almost _smell_ where this was going. "I already told you, we're not having sex."

"We don't need to have sex." He heaved a put-upon sigh. "I mean, if you _want_ to, purely for research purposes, so you know what to tell all the single women you work with when they ask you what I'm like in the sack, I _suppose_ we could."

She smacked him in the face with her fork.

"Ow," he muttered, rubbing the spot.

"It's a family barbecue at my boss's house, not a swinger's party," she warned. "Nobody's going to ask me if you're good in bed. Trust me." Smiling sweetly, she added, "And even if they do, I'm just gonna make something up."

"You're getting to be an expert at that."

"Excuse me?"

"Making things up."

That was _so_ unfair…

"If anyone asks, just tell them I'm a thorough but gentle lover with the stamina of a mountain lion," he said.

"The only thorough thing you're being right now is a smartass," she muttered.

He leaned back, grinning, one arm cocked on the back of his chair. "Well, until five o'clock on Sunday, I'm _your_ smartass."

"Don't remind me."

"You having second thoughts?"

Second, third and fourth, but not about him—mostly about her career ambitions. "Let's just say, I'm beginning to wonder if resigning on the spot tomorrow might be the easier option."

He shook his head. "You'd never do that. You're too much of a fighter."

"Don't tempt me." She chewed on another chunk of cake, thinking her options through. He was right, though—she _was_ too much of a fighter. And when it came to this fight, there was no way in _hell_ she was going to let someone as sleazy as Ian van Wettering win.

"So, what's it gonna be, McNally?" he said. "You gonna bail on me and your job, or are you gonna have dinner with me on Saturday night so we don't half-ass pretending to be a couple on Sunday?"

"I'll have dinner with you on Saturday night." She raised a finger. "On _one_ condition."

"What's that?"

"You let me pay." It seemed only fair, since she was the one who'd made the whole mess. And she didn't want to be in debt to him any more than she already was.

He shook his head. "Nuh uh. Not happening. My mom and Oma raised me right. First date, the guy always pays."

"It's not a date. It's a _study session_ , remember?"

"Now, who's being a smartass?"

She flashed him a sassy smile. "Guess we're perfectly matched."

"Yeah, I guess we are," he murmured. He raised a finger. "But you're _still_ not paying."

"That makes absolutely no sense," she protested. "You're an undergraduate student and I'm a fully qualified associate lawyer. You're probably living on, what, twelve or thirteen grand a year once you've paid for tuition and books?"

He turned his hand back and forth. "Give or take, yeah."

She tapped a thumb to her chest. "You're on twelve or thirteen grand, and _I'm_ on six figures," she said. She wouldn't usually talk about money, but today, she needed to make a point. And she wasn't ashamed of how much she earned. She'd worked damn hard to get where she was.

"Six figures? Really?"

"Really."

"You know what? I take that back. Fuck it. You're paying for dinner."

Finally, some common sense. "Thank you."

"But let's go somewhere normal, okay?" he pleaded. "No seven-course wine-paired dinner at Marcel's."

She wrinkled her nose. "I've been to Marcel's. It's overrated. The duck I had was really greasy."

"Hmm," he said, with narrowed eyes.

"What?" she asked.

He wagged his finger at her. "I'm beginning to think you might be a princess."

"I'm not a princess."

"Are you sure?"

"Of _course_ I'm sure," she said, slightly too vigorously for her own liking.

"Cus you told me your parents bought you a Merc for your twenty-fifth birthday, and now you're telling me you think the most expensive restaurant in town is overrated."

"Doesn't mean I'm a princess," she said. "Maybe my dad's a used car salesman, and my mom's a sous chef."

"There's one way to know for sure."

Her stomach clenched. Was there a princess test nobody had ever told her about? "What's that?"

"Did you ever have a pony when you were younger?"

Yes, apparently, there was. How the _hell_ had he known to ask that? "Technically, the answer is no."

" _Technically_?"

Primly, she said, "He belonged to my younger sister as well. He wasn't just mine." Although, she didn't remember Kate ever taking much of an interest in Raffles—he had really been only her horse.

"But you _had_ a pony."

She huffed. "Yes, I did."

"See? Princess," William concluded.

"Just for that, I'm having what's left of the cake," she said, pulling the plate towards her.

His hand shot out to pull the plate back. "Touch my cake, princess or not, I _will_ have to kill you."

Her voice turned Arctic cold. "Mister Cooper, either I have what's left of this cake, or we don't have dinner on Saturday night."

His grin was even colder. "Miss McNally, if we don't have dinner on Saturday night, you go to your work thing on Sunday alone."

"Think I'd rather go to my work thing on Sunday alone than go with a pie-eating asshole jarhead."

"Technically, I'm a _cake_ -eating asshole jarhead. A pie's a whole 'nother thing. It's almost a culinary crime to confuse them."

She leaned over the table to kiss him. Not a deep kiss—just a gentle brush of her lips to his—but enough to make him shut the hell up. She pulled away slightly. "That's for being such a _terrible_ person," she murmured against his mouth.

He pushed forward to kiss her back. "Give me a couple of weeks, I'll show you just how terrible I can be."

"I'll hold you to that."

"If you don't mind, I think I'd rather hold you to something else."

She snickered, then kissed him again, this time deeper and longer. He smelled of something citrus and clean, but tasted of wine cream, bitter chocolate and coffee.

Sighing, she pulled away. He sat back, shifting awkwardly in his seat.

She knew _exactly_ what that shifting meant. Shocking behaviour, and in a _café_ , no less. She should be disgusted, but she was actually thrilled. "Everything okay there, Sergeant?" she asked, not even trying to hide her impertinent grin.

"Everything's fine."

"You sure? Cus you look like you're in some kind of discomfort." She briefly dropped her eyes to his groin, telling him she knew _exactly_ what was causing the problem.

He blushed and cleared his throat. "Just working out some pins and needles in my leg."

"Pins and needles. Right."

She pulled the plate of cake towards her. This time, he made no attempt to stop her.

She snapped the chocolate-dipped cherry off the top and offered it to him. "Consider it a peace offering," she said. "And if you're gonna say what I think you're gonna say, don't bother. Keep your filthy jokes to yourself."

Grinning, he took the cherry, flipped it into his mouth and carefully bit it off the stalk.

She finished the cake and pushed the plate away.

"Good?" he asked.

She nodded and patted her stomach. "Girl could get use to that."

He tsk'd at her. "Not a girl. You're a _woman_ , remember?"

"Oh, _bite_ me."

"Wherever and whenever you want, Miss McNally."

Every muscle between her ribcage and her knees clenched. Jesus. Either the flirting had to stop, or she wouldn't make it back to the office—she would drag him into the washroom out back and let him ravage her into next week.

He checked his watch. "My class starts in fifteen minutes."

"Russian today, right?"

He nodded. "An overview of the formal and informal modes of address."

"Sounds fun."

He licked some chocolate off his thumb. "Not as fun as what I'd rather be doing," he murmured.

She wasn't the only one thinking about a ravaging, then.

"So, Saturday night," she said, trying to steer the conversation back to a less lascivious tone. "What time?"

"Seven o'clock okay for you?"

"Works great for me." It would give her time to do some shopping on Saturday afternoon, maybe even buy a new dress for the occasion. "Where do you wanna go?"

"You're gonna pay, so I think I should let you pick."

Her restaurant of choice was The Nash, but it was also one of Ian's haunts, so probably best to give it a miss. Bad enough she would have to see the asshole on Sunday—she didn't want to bump into him on Saturday night as well. "You ever been to a place called Niko's?" she asked. "About six blocks west of here, between the fancy bread shop and the interior décor place?"

"Haven't been, but yeah, I know the place you mean."

"The owner's from Croatia. He makes Italian dishes with a Balkan twist. Good food, good booze, really laid back." And it was mostly booths instead of tables—the ideal setup for a 'study session'.

"Works for me if it works for you."

"So, meet you there at seven?"

He nodded. "Sure."

"Speaking of booze," she started, tapping on the shot glass she'd almost forgotten. "We really shouldn't waste these."

"What did you say it was called?"

"Barenjaeger. A honey liqueur. From Germany, but the cashier said the base is vodka."

He picked up his glass, sniffed it, then in a single, smooth motion, threw it back. He blinked a few times and ran his tongue across his teeth. "Wow, that's good."

She followed his lead. The liqueur was as delicious as the cashier had promised—sweet, but with a slight herbal edge. It would probably make a really great base for a tea—a soothing way to treat a sore throat or a bad winter cold.

She set her glass down. "Girl could get used to that as well."

"Just not over lunch," he warned.

Such a goody-goody. Although, that might have something to do with his time in the Corps—no drinking on duty, or some other rule. "Don't worry," she said. "I like having a job, so not gonna make a bad habit of it."

"Glad to hear it." He opened his bag to jam his book in. "Okay, I gotta run. Olga's a stickler for starting classes on time."

"Olga?"

"The teacher for the Russian class," he said, waving at the building over the road. "She'll probably be waiting for me."

Michelle made a shooing motion. "Go. I'll see you at Niko's on Saturday night. And don't be late," she warned.

"Why don't you give me your number?" he said, pulling a pen out of the spine of a notebook and pushing a paper napkin towards her. "Just in case something comes up."

That made sense. "Sure." She wrote down two numbers and handed the pen and napkin back. "Home _and_ work. Just don't call me at work unless you're dying, okay? I'm allowed to take personal calls, but I don't have an office, and my co-workers tend to listen in." Especially Ian. The guy could eavesdrop in a sign language class.

William flipped a casual salute. "Yes, ma'am." He rose from his chair, jamming the napkin in his bag and leaned in to kiss her again. "See you on Saturday night," he murmured. "Really looking forward to it."

He hitched his bag and strode away.

Back at her building, Lena cornered her in the main lobby almost as soon as she stepped through the door, pouncing on her like a hunter moving in for the kill. "Well?" she demanded. "What happened? Did you find him? What'd he say? How'd it all work out?"

"He was there. I spoke to him, had lunch with him, told him what my problem was." Assuming a mug of tea, a shot of booze and a slice of Herrentorte counted as lunch.

"And?"

Michelle flashed a jubilant grin. "And, he agreed to help me. He's gonna come to the party with me on Sunday, pretend to be my date."

Lena's shoulders slumped in relief. "Thank _fuck_ ," she muttered. "Was it hard? To persuade him, I mean?"

"Not really. To be honest, he was actually really sweet about it. Teased me, but he understood." She pulled Lena close to murmur, "He even offered to kill Ian for me."

"Didn't you say he was in the Marines?"

Michelle nodded. "Seven years. General Infantry first, then an Embassy Security Guard."

"So, he probably could if he wanted to? Kill Ian, that is?"

"I think so, yes."

"And you _didn't_ take him up on his offer?"

Michelle pulled away, one brow raised, giving her friend a disparaging look. Was she the _only_ person in this whole city who didn't think murder was a fitting response?

"Okay, okay," Lena mumbled, throwing up surrendering hands. "Killing assholes isn't allowed." Her grin was malicious. "But beating them at their own game is."

"They _do_ say success is the best revenge."

And Sunday was going to be the most revenge-filled date of her life…

Lena started to walk, leading them to the elevators. "So, what's the deal?" she asked. "Are you picking him up on Sunday?"

Dammit. She and William hadn't actually talked about that. Not to worry. She would mention it on Saturday night. "We haven't finalized details yet."

"It's already Thursday lunchtime, girl," Lena warned. "Better not leave it too late to figure it out."

Michelle grinned again, feeling her crowning moment of triumph coming. "Don't worry. I'll make the arrangements when I go out for dinner with him on Saturday night."

"When you—okay, _what_?"

"He said he was happy to help me on Sunday, but asked me to have dinner with him first. Told me he wanted to ask for my number at lunch last week, but he was too nervous, and didn’t want me to think he was pushy."

Lena ground to a halt, grabbing her arm. "Okay, lemme get this straight. You admit to this guy that you turned him into your make-believe boyfriend—"

"—but only to defend myself from a sleazebag at work," Michelle interjected. A small but important point to make.

"But only to defend yourself from a sleazebag at work," Lena repeated, "and _not_ because you're a bunny boiler or some kind of Single White Female stalker…"

Michelle punched her friend on the arm.

Grinning, Lena continued. "And not only did he agree to help, but he then asked you out on a _date_?"

"That's pretty much it."

Lena threw up her hands in disgust. "Okay, and why do I never meet men like this?"

"Not like my recent track record's been any better." They reached the elevator bank; Michelle reached out to press the 'Up' button. "Least you never went out with the guy who didn't want his mother to know he was dating, and called her 'mommy' whenever they spoke on the phone."

"Okay, yeah, that one was bad."

"So, it's about time I found a good one, right?"

Lena's eyes narrowed. "Did he want anything in return?"

"He asked me to buy him a slice of cake."

"And what's that a Marine Corps euphemism for?"

"Nothing. An _actual_ slice of cake."

"Cake?"

Michelle nodded. "German chocolate cake, as it happens." The light above an elevator binged—the doors opened, they moved to the side to let the gaggle of passengers out.

Sighing, Lena leaned her head back to look at the ceiling. "Jesus, if you're listening, can you please, please, _please_ find me a man like that? Cus I can _totally_ do cake. Cake is _absolutely_ not a problem."

"Oh, and when we go out, I'm buying him dinner."

Lena wagged a finger. "Nuh uh. Not allowed. You know the rules. First date, the guy always pays."

"That's what he said."

"Glad one of you knows how it works."

"He knows how it works as well, but that doesn't mean he's right."

"How'd you talk him into letting you pay?"

Michelle led Lena into the car, pressing the button for the tenth floor. "I reminded him he's a poverty-stricken undergrad student, and I'm an associate lawyer making six figures."

"Okay, yeah, when you put it like _that_."

"I know this might come as a shock, but sometimes, I do _actually_ know what I'm doing."

Lena turned to check her hair in the elevator's mirrored rear wall. "So, where are you going for dinner?" She wrinkled her nose. "Not to Marcel's, I hope. That duck we had was really greasy."

"Not to Marcel's. Just to Niko's."

"Nice, but casual."

"That's what I thought."

In the mirror, Lena flashed suggestive brows. "Is he gonna be the third course?"

"It's only a first date. That's _highly_ unlikely."

"If you're not up to a full serving, you could always try the _tasting_ menu instead."

"Don't be crude."

"C'mon, girl. You're seriously telling me, you're gonna go out for dinner with this guy, this tall, smart, funny, good-looking, kind, _career-saving_ guy, and when you get to the end of the night, you're just gonna give him a virtuous kiss on the cheek?"

"I'm not gonna have sex with him after dinner just because he's helping me out. I already told him that."

Lena's hands paused mid-hair fix. "You _told_ him that?"

"Yes."

"And he _still_ wants to have dinner with you?"

"Yes."

"Okay, he's _definitely_ a keeper."

"He seems pretty promising, yeah. But so did Ian when we first met him."

Lena grimaced. "Don't remind me. Can't believe there was a time when I actually thought he was a half-decent guy." Her face lit up. "Oh, and I forgot to mention, Janelle called just after you left. She got the marks back for her resit exam."

Michelle mentally kicked herself. In the rush of the week, Janelle's test had totally slipped her mind. "And?"

"She aced it, says thank you, she owes both of us a drink, she couldn't have done it without us."

Michelle owed their friend a drink right back—but for Janelle's suggestion last week, she and William would never have met. "That's fantastic. We should do something after work next week. Celebrate our successes together."

"Is hooking up with a hot new guy a bigger or smaller success than finally passing Civil Procedure?"

The elevator ground to a halt. The doors opened, giving them a perfect view into the Wilson, Cruz & Geller reception. Ian was hovering at the front desk, chatting to one of the admin staff. The woman was nodding and smiling politely, but Michelle could tell from the way her eyes were darting around, looking for someone— _anyone_ —to need her, that she wanted Ian to just fuck off and leave her alone.

"Bigger," Michelle said as she stepped out. " _Definitely_ bigger."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> William and Michelle go for their 'study session' dinner.

**Saturday July 28th, 2001**

Coming from opposite ends of the street, they arrived at Niko's at more or less the same time.

Michelle smiled as William sauntered towards her. "Good timing," she approvingly said, adding 'punctual' to her Plus Points column. She hated when people kept her waiting, especially on a first date. Not that this was a date; officially, this was a 'study session'. She couldn't remember ever being so eager to hit the books back when she'd been in school, but the subject tonight was _way_ more appealing.

"I actually turned up ten minutes ago." He made a circling motion with his finger. "I've been walking laps to pass the time."

"Exercise'll do you good. Help you work off some of the calories from the Herrentorte on Thursday." She could think of a better way to work them off, but that should probably wait until she knew him a little bit better.

"You look amazing," he said, gesturing at her dress, earning another credit. "Colour really suits you."

She stepped back to give him a thorough once-over. "Thanks. You look pretty decent yourself." And 'pretty decent' was putting it mildly. He was only wearing a smart pair of jeans and a perfectly pressed, light cotton shirt over a classic, white Henley tee, but he still looked like sex on legs. To her relief, the stubble he'd sported on Thursday was gone—his cheeks and jaw were smooth once again.

She herself had opted for a light, patterned, wraparound dress accessorized with a small canvas bag and a comfortable pair of strappy sandals, all purchased only a few hours before. Like him, she wasn't wearing a coat—at this time of year, there was simply no need. She was also wearing one of her favourite Coup de Foudre lingerie sets. She had no intention of letting him see it tonight, but having something sexy and pretty next to her skin made her feel sexy and pretty as well.

She pushed up onto her toes to give him a quick 'hello' kiss, then gestured to the restaurant door. "Let's go order some food and break out our study manuals."

He moved ahead to hold the door open and wave her inside.

She smiled at the maitre'd. "Hi there, we'd like a table for two, please?" She scanned the restaurant as she spoke, checking to see how full it was. It was busy, even for a Saturday night, but she could see there were still a handful of spaces.

The maitre'd pulled two menus from under the desk. "How about a booth in the back?" he said.

"That's perfect, thank you."

Five minutes later, they were scanning their menus, trying to decide which dishes to order, waiting for a Birra Moretti and a glass of Sauvignon Blanc to arrive.

"So, how was the rest of your week?" he asked without looking up.

"Pretty good, so can't complain. I think I might be giving off some victory vibes, though, cus Ian's staying out of my way. Hasn't so much as _breathed_ near me since Thursday lunchtime."

He grinned. "You think he's somehow figured out you've done an end-run around him?"

"I'm not gonna complain if he has, but at the same time, part of me really hopes he hasn't. I was looking forward to seeing the shocked look on his face when I turn up with you tomorrow." Ian was going to receive two shocks—the first one when he saw she'd actually brought a real date with her, the second one when he realized how much better (and better-looking) that date was than him.

"Anyone ever tell you, it's kinda rude to take pleasure from other people's misfortunes?"

"It's not rude when the people in question deserve it." And Ian _really_ deserved it. "In fact, I'd say taking pleasure from their misfortune's practically a legal requirement."

"Didn't realize Schadenfreude was something they taught you in Law School."

"Schadenfreude. _Wow_. That's a really big word for a Marine."

" _Ex_ -Marine," he reminded her, flipping his menu to check the desserts. "I've gotten smarter since I quit."

"You mean you've moved on from pop-up books?"

He wrinkled his nose. "Pop-up books are for _fancy_ people. Always been more partial to colouring books myself."

"What about you?" she asked, grinning, absolutely _loving_ the snark. "How was your class on Thursday? Did you arrive in time to keep Olga happy? Do anything interesting yesterday?"

"Class was good. Olga was a little bit crabby, but not because of when I turned up. Spent most of yesterday and this morning trying to beat my latest essay into shape, but I'm well ahead of the submission deadline, so I'm not too worried about it."

"What's the essay about?"

"It's the one I mentioned last week, about Potemkin's annexation of Crimea."

The guy in the wig on the front of the book, but that was as much as she could remember. If her 'boyfriend' was writing a paper about him, maybe she should know a bit more. "Who was Potemkin anyway?" she asked.

"Grigory Potemkin. Eighteenth century Russian guy. Statesman and military leader. Probably also the secret, second husband of Catherine the Great."

Now, _that_ name, she knew. "Didn't she have a whole schwack of lovers?"

He snickered. "Let's just say her palace stables always had a couple of vigorous stallions in them."

"Wasn't she the one who, um, you know…"

"Died having sex with a horse?" He shook his head. That's an urban legend. She died in her bed of a stroke."

"I'll need to tell my brother that the next time I see him. He's convinced the horse story's true. He'll be disappointed to find out it isn't." Dan probably wouldn't believe her, but that was his problem, not hers.

"You have a brother?" William asked.

Sighing, she nodded. _Unfortunately_ , she wanted to say. "Daniel, yeah. Four years younger than me."

"And what does he do?"

"He's a financial trader, specializes in FX derivatives. He lives in New York, works for Goldman Sachs."

"Four years younger," he repeated. "So, he must be close to twenty-five?"

She knew _exactly_ where his question was going. "Just had his birthday a month ago, yeah."

"Did your parents buy him a Merc as well?" he asked with his best attempt at a guileless expression.

"As it happens, no, they didn't."

"Uh oh. What'd he do?"

"He didn't do anything." She flipped her menu, stalling for time. "They just bought him a BMW 5 instead."

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, man, that's _so_ much worse. The poor guy. And only a Series 5 instead of a 7. How will he _ever_ live with the shame?"

But two could play the snark game that way.

"Has anyone ever told you, you're a lot prettier when you don't speak?" she said, using a line some asshole pledge at UVA had once used on her.

"My Boot Camp drill instructor might've mentioned it, yeah."

"When was that?"

"Last three months of 1990?"

"But here you are, eleven years on, still flapping your useless trap."

He shrugged. "I'm a slow learner, okay?"

"So, you've moved on from colouring books, but you still have to read the words out loud as you go?"

"You know, you're _really_ funny for a lawyer."

"And you're _really_ perceptive for a jarhead."

He sat back, eyes narrowed but smiling, perhaps trying to decide whether to be annoyed or amused.

Or, maybe both. Both was good.

With perfect timing, a server appeared with their drinks. "Birra Moretti for the gentleman," he said, setting William's beer on the table. Her own glass of wine followed. "And a glass of Sauvignon Blanc for the lady. Enjoy." The server smiled and left.

Michelle raised her glass. "Here's to our first study session," she said.

"I'll drink to that," William said, grabbing his glass to gently touch it to hers.

They paused to take a sip of their drinks.

"So, you have a younger brother called Daniel, and you mentioned a younger sister on Thursday." He smirked. "The one who owned the other half of the pony. What's her name?" he asked.

"Catherine. But I call her Kate."

"And what age is she?"

Michelle used her answer to cover all the main points. "She's twenty. She's in Baltimore, studying at Johns Hopkins, taking a major in Biology with a minor in Psychology. She's hoping to become a Physician Assistant when she's done."

"So, a lawyer, a banker and a doctor. You guys are doing pretty well."

"Kate won't be a doctor, but yeah, we are." Thanks in part to the family money—it hadn't helped them earn good grades, but it had meant tuition and loans were never a problem.

"No other siblings?" he said.

"Just Dan and Kate."

"You get along with them?"

She sighed and sipped on her wine, trying to decide how honest she wanted to be. "Not so much with Dan," she said. "He's not a bad person, and he's my brother, so I love him and all, I just don't have anything in common with him. He's twenty-five, works for a glitzy bank in New York, earns even more money than me, and his whole life is about what that brings. He's got the Wall Street hair, the custom suits, the handmade shoes and the flashy car. When he's not at work, he's in some high-end bar or club in Manhattan with a bunch of other traders and bankers, hitting on actresses and underwear models, drinking single malts and martinis."

"Is that what he wants?"

"I guess so, yeah." She held up conceding hands. "And I try not to judge, cus I know I don't exactly have the cleanest legs to stand on. I mean, as you keep reminding me, I _am_ a lawyer."

"But a nice one."

"You say that, but you've never seen me deposing a client."

He grinned and took a swig of his beer. "And what about Kate? Are you close to her?"

That was a much easier answer. "Extremely, yeah."

"She anything like you?"

Michelle snorted; he might as well have asked her if day was like night. "Not even _remotely_. And not just because she looks like our mom while Dan and I look more like our dad. I tend to be quite introverted, but she's the really outgoing one. Even more so than Dan, now I think about it. I mean, I'm sociable, don't get me wrong," she quickly added, not wanting William to think she was bordering on being a cat lady, "but I like my peace and quiet as well. Kate's one of those people who lives in a perpetual whirlwind of motion and chaos, but somehow still manages to get a million things done. Being with her can be really exhausting, but I love her to death." She groaned as she remembered what milestone event was on the horizon. "She turns twenty-one at the end of August. Oh, God."

"Gonna be a big party?"

"Knowing Kate, the absolute biggest. I don't even wanna _think_ about how much havoc she'll wreak." Or, about how much she would spend—Kate was as generous as she was chaotic.

"Maybe you should organize it. Keep a lid on the worst of the trouble."

"Yeah, no, let's not do that. If I'm involved, when the shit hits the fan, I won't be able to meet her in court to help her enter her plea."

He chuckled. "That bad, huh?"

"She's uh, she's _challenging_ , yeah. One of the kindest, warmest, most generous, most caring people you'll ever meet, but best tackled in short doses, with some alcohol or valium to help you along."

"Maybe she just needs to meet Mister Right. Someone who can tame her chaos."

"Don't think she cares about Mister Right. She's always too busy looking for Mister Right Now."

"So, lots of guys in her life?"

"Let's just say her name's very fitting, cus she's got a few vigorous stallions in her stable as well."

William swirled his beer. "You ever get jealous of that?" he asked with a coy smile.

"It sounds _awfully_ tiring when she tells me about it, so not really, no." And Kate usually told her the details in full, glorious technicolour—far more than she ever wanted (or needed) to know.

"To be fair, it kinda comes with being that age," William said, instantly derailing her plan to use the moment to ask him if he had brothers or sisters. "When _I_ was twenty-one, I probably wasn't much better."

She cocked a brow. "Oh?"

"Don't give me that look," he huffed.

"What look?"

He gestured at her face. "That eyebrow thing. Your lawyer look. Like you're totally judging all the life choices I've made."

"Maybe it's because all the life choices you've made really deserve to be judged," she said, making a mental note to take a look at her 'eyebrow thing' the next time she was near a mirror.

"Says the woman who had to _beg_ me to be her fake date tomorrow."

She felt herself blush. "Remember what I said a minute ago about quiet being a good look for you?"

"Sorry, can't say I do."

"Uh huh."

He grinned again as he sipped on his beer. "When I turned twenty-one, I'd just been assigned to the US embassy in Vienna," he said.

"Plenty of opportunities to find a Miss Right Now? Or, a Fraulein Right Now, even?" she added, dredging up the tiny amount of German she knew.

"Some, but not as many as you might think."

She pouted and creased her brows. "Oh, dear. Was your dazzling personality just too much for them?"

"On most MSG postings, for security reasons, you have to file a report whenever you start a relationship with a local woman," he said, wisely ignoring her snarky remark. "And on some postings, the relationships are _completely_ off limits, no matter how many reports you submit. It's called the Non-Fraternization Rule. Breaking it's a very serious no-no."

"That's all about spies and spying, right?" She'd never worked in an embassy, but she'd read her fair share of John le Carré novels.

He nodded. "Some countries get really creative with their infiltration techniques. And people are always the weakest link in any security situation." He grinned. "And the MSG guys are all young and single, which makes them a really easy target for swallows."

"Sorry, for _what_?"

"Honey traps," he said. "Female operatives from the other side who use sex and seduction to get what they want. The male versions are called ravens."

That definitely sounded like something from a Le Carré novel. Or maybe even a James Bond movie. "Did you ever have to deal with one? A swallow, I mean?"

"Me?" He shook his head. "Not that I'm aware of, no." He flashed a bashful smile. "I wasn't exactly a lady-killer at that age, so it's entirely possible one made a play for me, but I was so clueless, it went right over my head."

She remembered his comment about the Kuchenladen. "Or, maybe you were too busy looking at a window full of pastries to notice."

"I would bitch you out for that, but then I remember how many pastries I ate, so I'm not sure I would have a leg to stand on."

"Which security category was the Austria embassy in?" she asked.

He waved his hand back and forth. "Kinda halfway in between. It wasn't part of the Soviet bloc, so relationships with locals weren't forbidden, but it wasn't a member of NATO or the Five Eyes network, either."

"So, the local ladies weren't off limits?"

"Not completely, but I had to fill out a three page report just to take one out for a drink."

She winced. "Jesus, talk about a passion killer?"

"Actually wasn't as bad as it sounds. The Vienna embassy's pretty big, so it had a decent number of staff. And it's a capital city, so all of the Five Eyes countries had embassies in it. We had to be careful, obviously, but between the Yanks, the Canucks, the Kiwis, the Brits and the Aussies, there were plenty of safe fish in the sea." He smirked. "And you wouldn't _believe_ how many women on embassy teams have a thing for Marines."

Actually, no, she probably would—the dress blues were an ovary-killer.

"The last serious boyfriend I had was an Aussie," she somehow found herself saying.

"Why'd you break up?"

"His visa ran out, he couldn't get it renewed. He had to go back to Oz."

"His loss is my gain."

"In hindsight, mine as well." John had been a nice guy, but a little too dull for her liking.

"Worked with a handful of Aussies when I was in the Corps," William said. "They always seemed like a really good bunch." He tapped his bottle. "The only people I ever met who could drink the Finnish under the table."

"Why do I get the feeling alcohol was a big part of the job?" she asked with a wry grin.

" _On_ the job?" He shook his head. "Never. That would've been an instant court-martial and discharge offense," he said, confirming her theory from Thursday. "But once we were all safely off-duty?" He snickered and swigged on his beer. "Some of the wilder parties we threw were like something out of that 'Caligula' movie."

An interesting choice—not the kind of movie a twenty-something marine would usually watch. "Just without the horse, I hope."

He blinked; was he surprised she'd seen the movie as well? "No horse, I promise."

"No wild parties now, though, right?"

He shook his head. "I still like to go for beers with the guys, but my Caligula days are all well and truly behind me."

She breathed a quiet sigh of relief. If he'd still been a big party guy, she would've seen tonight and tomorrow through to the end, thanked him for a really nice time then left him to go on his way. It wasn't that she didn't like to have fun—she just wanted her fun to be calm and relaxed, and to come without the threat of arrest or a hospital visit.

"Was it like that on all of your assignments?" she asked. "Work hard, but party harder?"

"Not all of 'em, no. Some of 'em were pretty dull."

"Remind me again, what countries you went to?"

"Austria first, then Israel, then Peru, then New Zealand, then Yemen."

Yemen, of course—the posting where he'd been shot. "Can't imagine a posting to Yemen did your social or sex life much good."

"Loneliest eighteen months of my life. The mission was pretty small, didn't have a lot of single women in it. Got to the point where the other guys in my unit started to look attractive."

"You must've been close to going blind by the time you left."

He shook his head. "I'm a nice, polite Catholic boy. Would never do anything as dirty and sinful as that."

She leaned out to look at his pants.

"The hell are you doing?" he asked, frowning, leaning out to follow her gaze.

"Checking to see if your pants are on fire."

"You calling me a liar?"

"You just told me you've never, _ever_ cuffed the carrot. Or burped the worm. Or choked the chicken. Or whatever the hell you want to call it. And you're a man, and you have a pulse. So, yeah, you're damn right I'm calling you a liar."

"In Israel, they call it soaking the waffle." He scrunched his nose. "Never quite figured out why."

She noticed he hadn't denied her charge…

Another server arrived, this one an attractive young woman, her pen and order notepad in hand. "Hey, there," she started with a friendly smile. "You guys decided what you're gonna order, or do you need another couple of minutes?"

William pointed the server her way. "I'm ready, but ladies first."

Decisions, decisions. "I'll have the bruschetta to start, then the veal saltimbocca, please," Michelle said. Not the most ethical of choices, but she'd had it before, and it was one of the best meat dishes she'd ever tasted.

"I'll have the salsiccia to start, then the carbonara," William added. "But fusilli instead of spaghetti, if that's okay." He showed a quick grin. "Don't want to splatter sauce all over my shirt."

"Okay, so that's one bruschetta, one salsiccia, one veal saltimbocca and one fusilli carbonara," the server read back from her pad.

William held up a thumb. "Perfect, thanks."

"Great. Starters should be out soon." Job done, the server retreated.

The 'study session' resumed.

"Where did you go once you were finished in Yemen?" she asked.

"Came back to the States. Spent a few months at Quantico Base while they processed my discharge papers."

That was another familiar name. "Quantico. That's where the FBI Academy is, right?"

"They have their own facilities we couldn't go into, but yeah, it's all on the same base. The DEA Academy and the NCIS Headquarters as well."

"You didn't think about re-enlisting?"

"Not a chance." The vehemence with which he said it surprised her. "They asked, but I'd had enough, wanted to go be a civilian again." He smirked. "Being shot and almost bleeding to death will kind of do that to you."

"And where after that?" she asked. "Back to wherever home was?"

"Stayed with my Oma in Delaware while I wrapped up my reserve obligations and figured out my next move."

Why his grandmother, and not his mother or father? Surely, after being overseas for so long, they would have wanted to see him as well? Had something happened to his parents, and they'd left him to be raised by his grandparents instead? Or, even worse, were his parents _dead_? Was that why he was so reluctant to talk about them?

"I'm sure your Oma was glad to have you home in one piece," she said.

"Extremely. She drove down from Lewes to collect me. When I walked out the front gate, the first thing she did was cry and hug me for ten minutes straight. The _second_ thing she did was bawl me out at the top of her lungs for walking in front of a bullet. And she did it in German, so it sounded _really_ severe. The guards at the gate almost pissed themselves laughing."

"Not like you _planned_ to get shot."

He sighed. "Yeah, except she didn't really see it that way."

Such a shame his Oma had passed. She sounded like the kind of woman who could probably keep her father in place, smack him on the head with a ruler every time his inner asshole got the better of him. Which was pretty much a daily occurrence—her father wasn't the nicest or most patient of people.

But his Oma was someone he was willing to talk about, so maybe she should focus the family-themed questions on her, work her way in to other relations from there.

"When we met last Thursday, you told me your grandmother died a few years ago," she said.

He nodded. "In June ninety-eight, just before I started my course."

"What age was she?"

"Seventy-six."

"That's a pretty good innings."

"For someone of her background and generation, yeah, it wasn't too bad."

"What was her name?"

"Johanna," he said. "Originally Stengel, Cooper once she was married."

She took the first leap. "What about your grandfather?" she asked, bracing for him to shut down again.

To her surprise, with a fond smile, he said, "His name was Michael Cooper. He died in ninety-two. He was younger than Oma, only seventy-two, but he smoked a lot when he was in the Navy, so he had a handful of chronic health problems." He moved his hand in a circle over his chest. "Emphysema, bronchitis, that kind of thing."

"Were you close to him as well?"

He nodded. "He retired the summer I turned twelve. I used to spend the holidays with them at their house in Lewes." The fond smile returned. "He was the one who taught me how to sail."

But only the holidays. So, where had he lived the rest of the time? And Jesus, why did he have his _maternal_ grandfather's name? Why was he William Cooper, and not William Something Else instead? She was gonna figure his story out if it was the last thing she did.

"Is that why you joined the Marines? Because your grandfather had served in the Navy?"

"Not the only reason, but some of it, yeah." He grinned. "I wanted to join a different service from him, but he told me he would completely disown me if I even _looked_ at the Air Force or Army, so the Corps was the easy compromise."

"That must have pleased him. To see you follow in his footsteps, I mean. Even if it wasn't into exactly the same role."

"It did, to some extent, but he had some reservations as well. He served in the Navy for almost forty years, made Rear Admiral by the time he was done, so he knew firsthand how hard military service could be. Especially when you're enlisted. He didn't want me to become another one of the meat-grinder's victims."

"Meat grinder?" she repeated. "Jesus, is it _really_ that bad?"

"It can be, yeah." He leaned forward, frowning. "You have to remember, the military is a machine. A massive, expensive, inflexible, unrelenting machine. It doesn't care about your needs as a person. To the brass, you're simply a tool. They'll mould you into the proper shape, or maybe hammer would be a better way to put it, then they'll use you until they're either done with you, or you break. If you break, they won't necessarily spend the time or money to fix you. They'll just throw you away and bring in a younger, healthier tool."

"How did you avoid being broken?" she asked. She wasn't an expert by any means, but he didn't come across as damaged. If he was, he was hiding it well.

He sat back again. "Part preparation, part luck. I did my homework before I enlisted, talked it over with a bunch of my grandfather's friends, so I knew a lot about what to expect. I always had decent COs, and beyond some basic hazing bullshit in training, I was never really harassed or bullied. And I chose a simpler MOS. MSG's tough, don't get me wrong, but it's nowhere near as tough as, say, Recon or one of the Expeditionary Units." He snickered. "Although, I've met a bunch of the Recon guys, and I think the main reason they come out a bit damaged is that they're all a sandwich short of a picnic when they go in." He wielded a warning finger. "Don't ever tell any of 'em I said that, though. They ever knew I'd talked shit about them, they'd kick my sorry MSG ass from one end of Camp LeJeune to the other."

That shouldn't be a hard secret to keep. "Did your grandmother approve of you going into the Corps?"

He sighed. "Not really, no. She understood it was something I wanted to do, but she didn't want me to make it my life. The day I left, she warned me not to stay in the service for good, and to not get married until I was done. She spent the best part of thirty years following her husband from post to post because of his career. She didn't want me to do the same thing to my own wife and kids."

"Must've been hard on her. Being a Navy wife, that is."

"Very. She never complained about all the moving, because she loved her husband, and understood it came with the job, but I don't think she ever enjoyed it. Once they settled back in the States, she never left the country again."

Michelle took a deep breath, preparing to make the leap to what she knew would be a hard question. But if they were supposed to be getting to know each other, it was a question she couldn't really ignore.

"And what about your parents?" she asked. "Where are they in all this?"

His expression didn't change, but she could almost hear him locking the doors and battening down the hatches. He sipped his beer, stalling for time.

"If you'd rather not talk about it, you don't have to," she offered.

"It's not that I don't want to talk about it, it's just that I don't want to talk about it _tonight_. Don't take this the wrong way, but I feel like I don't quite know you well enough yet, and it's not a good story to share on a date. It's, um, it's actually kinda depressing."

Depressing, hmm. Definitely _not_ the best tone for a date. Or a study session. Or whatever the hell tonight was.

But _he'd_ called it a 'date'. _And_ he'd said 'yet'. The romantic in her took that as a good sign.

As for her question, a compromise of sorts came to mind.

"Why don't you tell me anything about your family you think people might ask you about tomorrow?" Then, she wouldn't be caught off-guard by her co-workers' enquiries. Especially since Ian was the person most likely to try to catch her out.

"Such as?" he prompted.

"Such as why you were born in Berlin, and why you speak fluent Russian. That's got to be an interesting story." And one she herself was eager to hear. "Tell me a bit more about that."

"To be honest, if anyone asks me a question like that, I'm just gonna politely ignore them. With all due respect, the people tomorrow will all be strangers. I'm not gonna be _rude_ to them, but none of them need to know the intimate details of my life story."

Sadly, he made a good point. His only job tomorrow was to be a 'good' date—he didn't owe her co-workers a thing.

Or her, for that matter.

She saw the server approaching, carrying two plates of food. A natural place to pause and change course. "Let's talk about something else, then," she said, grabbing her napkin to flick it out. "Tell me more about your classes, and about your time in the Corps."

Michelle groaned and slumped in her seat, cradling her distended stomach. "Think I'm done," she said.

"You sure?" William asked.

She nodded. "I take another bite, I'll burst." She gestured at the sharing plate. "Go on, you have the rest."

William pulled the panna cotta towards him, dug in with his spoon, and finished what was left of the creamy, fruit-covered pudding in a couple of bites. He grabbed her spoon, combined it with his on the plate, sighed and copied her satisfied slouch. "Oh, man. That was great."

"Best meal out I've had in months." And thanks to the company, better than both of her previous visits. William was smart and funny and easy to talk to, and unlike some of the other men she'd attempted to date, he wasn't totally full of himself, or in love with the sound of his voice. They'd found plenty to chat about, even while staying away from his childhood and parents. Small wonder they'd been here for almost three hours.

She finished her wine, wincing at the 'last mouthful' taste. "You want anything else?" she asked. "Coffee, tea, another beer?"

He held up a hand to refuse. "Thanks, but I'm pretty close to bursting myself. Always forget how filling a carbonara can be."

"Just the cheque, then?"

"Just the cheque, yeah." He waved to catch the server's attention, smiled and pretended to write on a pad, letting the young woman know they were done and wanted to settle the bill.

Michelle reached across the table to poke him soundly in the ribs.

He grunted and jerked away. "The _hell_ was that for?" he said.

"You better not be trying to pay," she warned.

Guilt flashed across his face, making him look like a five-year-old caught stealing the cookies.

She huffed. "You are as well, aren't you?" She rummaged in her bag for her purse. "We talked about this at lunch on Thursday, and we agreed dinner would be on me." He started to protest; she held up a finger to cut him off. "I mean it. I'm paying. So, zip it, Sergeant."

"Yes, ma'am," he murmured, eyes dancing in amusement.

She laid her credit card on the table.

His brows shot up. "You have a _black_ credit card?" he asked, reaching out to pick the card up.

She swatted his hand away. "It's not what you think," she said, knowing full well it actually was. "I know a guy who works at the bank, he did me a favour, got me into the program through the back door." She didn't mention the guy was the McNally family lawyer. As always, she felt bad about lying, but she didn't want him to know about the family money just yet.

"Read about them, but never seen one in the flesh." He angled his head to check out the name; she hoped he wasn't trying to memorize the numbers. "Bet it comes with all kinds of perks."

"It's got some pretty useful features, yeah."

He snickered. "Credit limit on mine's so low, it's barely made of proper plastic, never mind whatever this is," he said, tapping on the face. "Stainless steel, right?"

"Titanium, I think."

"Jesus," he muttered. "Probably worth more than everything I own."

The server appeared at her side. "Did you guys enjoy your meal?" she asked.

"We did, yes, very much, thank you," Michelle said.

William grinned and gave his stomach a satisfied pat. "Especially the panna cotta. Really hit the spot."

The server smiled and picked up the empty plate. "Glad to hear it. I'll let the guys in the kitchen know." She slid the credit card off the table. "Let me just go run this for you."

"So, what now?" Michelle asked once the young woman was gone. "Call it a night, or would you like to go somewhere else for another drink?" Assuming they could find a space in their stomachs for it.

"That's up to you. You think you know me well enough by now to fake it through this party tomorrow, or is there anything else you wanna review?"

She pretended to think. "Did you tell me your pant and collar size yet?"

"Not that I remember, no."

She raised expectant brows.

He huffed. "You're not serious, are you?"

She grinned as she waved him off. "Course not. Just messing with you." Some women wouldn't remember those details even when they'd been with a guy for a couple of decades, never mind a couple of months. "I think I know everything I could reasonably be expected to know about you if we'd been together since May." Except what he was like in the sack, but she already had a solution for that.

"Well, for the sake of completeness, it's thirty-four and fifteen-and-a-half," he said.

She filed that information away. "Then, I think we've covered literally _everything_ we need to cover."

"Great." He checked his watch. "Then, if it's okay with you, I think I'll call it a night. If we're gonna be out tomorrow afternoon, I'd like to get up early to do some more reading and go to the gym."

It had been a long and arduous week, so she was only a _tiny_ bit disappointed. And she'd already had two large glasses of wine. She wasn't sure her head (or her liver) could handle a third.

The server returned with her receipt. Michelle reclaimed her card, checked the numbers, added a generous tip and scrawled her signature at the bottom.

"You guys have a great night," the young woman said. She smiled, collected the receipt folder and left.

"Thank you for dinner," William said.

She dipped her head. "You're very welcome."

He tapped his thumb on his chest. "But next time, _I'm_ buying."

She sat back, crossing her arms. "What makes you think there's gonna be a next time?" she asked. She definitely wanted to see him again, but it was too good an opening to pass up.

He gave her a wounded look. "What, my conversation skills weren't quite sharp enough for you?"

"Your conversation skills were fine. But I'm not quite ready to forgive you for stealing one of my baby roast potatoes."

"You _are_ Irish," he reminded her. "For you, stealing roast potatoes is literally a life or death matter."

"Which is why you're still on probation."

"Will you move me out of probation before one-thirty tomorrow?"

A final reminder of the dinner's objectives. "Let's wait and see."

They slid out of the booth, heading back to the door, him pausing briefly to grab a couple of mints from the basket at the front desk. When they reached the front sidewalk, they paused.

William gestured over his shoulder. "I'm eight blocks this way on foot," he said. "How 'bout you?"

"Metro station for me," she said, waving in the other direction.

Frowning, he checked his watch. "Almost ten o'clock. You be okay to get home on your own?"

"It's only two stops. And I've gone much further much later at night. It's perfectly safe. You're very sweet, but I'll be fine."

"You sure? Because I'm more than happy to see you home."

Part of her really wanted to take him up on his offer, let him escort her back to her place, then, once they were at the front door, oh-so-casually ask him in for a drink. Or maybe even another dessert. But she really couldn't. Or shouldn't. Whatever the most responsible reason was. There would be plenty of time to be thoroughly irresponsible later.

"I'm sure, thank you."

He flashed her a bashful smile. "I, uh, I had a really great time tonight."

"Yeah, me too." Her pulse started to race.

He stepped close, hesitated, then leaned in to kiss her. Nothing too hot and heavy—they _were_ standing out in the street—but heavy enough to trigger a wave of lust that set her groin and stomach on fire. Heart pounding, she snaked a hand around his neck, pulling him in, tasting him, quietly groaning into his mouth.

With a reluctant sigh, he eventually broke the embrace. "Unless you want to meet me in court on Monday morning on a public indecency charge, I think we should probably leave this here," he murmured against her cheek.

Screw being irresponsible later.

"What if I don't want to leave it here?" she murmured back, dropping her hand to trace languid circles on his chest. "What if I want to try some private indecency instead?" Or, if she stuck with the 'study night' theme, put him through a practical test, find out what his mileage was like, and how well he stuck to the road through the curves?

She heard his breath hitch; he swallowed and cleared his throat. "You, uh, you forgetting we're only on our first date?"

She wanted to tell him she didn't care, that she'd been desperate to get him out of his clothes since pretty much the first moment they'd met, but he was right—a moment of ladylike caution was needed. They'd had two lunches and one dinner together, and he seemed like a really nice guy, but when it came down to it, she still didn't know him. Better to go home on her own, and leave the indecency for a future, better-acquainted occasion.

Besides, if she slept with him on their first date, what would his dear, departed grandmother think? Her ghost would probably rise from the grave to give them both a sound, German, Catholic thrashing.

She sighed and stepped away. "Spoken like a true gentleman. I'm sure your Oma would approve." Her mother certainly would.

Smiling, he kissed her again, this time chastely and lightly. He set a finger to her lips. "Whatever you're thinking about right now, can you hold it for a couple of weeks?"

A couple of _weeks_? Jesus Christ. Who in the goddamn _hell_ was he kidding? The way her libido was currently running, she would barely make it a couple of _days_ , even with a twice-daily cold shower. "No promises, but I'll do my best."

"Let's at least get through our big date tomorrow."

She groaned and held a hand to her head. She'd forgotten all about the stupid work thing. All thoughts of indecency instantly vanished. "The company party, right."

"If you're driving, we're gonna need to figure out where and when to meet up tomorrow."

"I could pick you up at your place?" she offered.

"Why don't I give you a call in the morning?" he counter-proposed. "I need to read a couple of chapters, and I want to put in some time at the gym. Lemme call you once I know where I'm gonna be. Might not make any sense to come to my place."

That worked well enough for her. "Okay, yeah. Let's do that. You have my phone number. I'm an early bird, so any time after eight's good."

He snorted. "You call eight early?"

"I'm sorry, remind me again, which one of us chose one language course instead of another because the exam was in the _afternoon_?"

"Fair point." He grinned and stuck his hands in his pockets. "And not like I've been any better since I left the Corps. Most weekdays now, I'm lucky if I manage to be conscious and moving by seven."

"I guess that means you haven't signed up for any eight o'clock classes."

"Not a goddamn chance. Don't have one until _ten_ on Mondays."

"Slacker."

"Uh, did you miss the bit where I'm a student?"

"Don't remind me." She checked her watch, thinking about her walk to the train. "Okay, so call me tomorrow as soon as you know where you're gonna be. You can call me before eight if you have to, but I can't promise I'll be in the mood to talk."

"I thought you were a morning person."

"I am. But I like my mornings undisturbed."

"Gotcha."

"Oh, and if you go to the gym, and want me to pick you up from there, _please_ take a nice change of clothes with you?" she pleaded. "I don't think 'business casual' covers an old pair of runners and sweats."

He pressed another quick kiss to her lips. "Don't worry. I promise to wash and wear a nice shirt." He plucked at his tee. "You might not believe it to look at me now, but I scrub up really nicely."

Oh, she _absolutely_ believed it.

"Then, I guess I'll see you tomorrow?" she said.

"You sure will."

"Okay, well, good night."

She pressed her fingers from her lips to his, then forced herself to turn around and walk away.

She'd barely gone two blocks when she stopped. The polite, sensible part of her brain was sternly telling her to keep moving, to go home, put her dishwasher on, get a decent night's sleep and rise early to go to yoga and tackle some chores.

But she didn't want to be polite. Or sensible. She was sick and tired of playing it safe, of being the mature, responsible child who could always be relied upon to do the right thing. Tonight, maybe because of the wine, maybe because of the heat, or hell, maybe because she was ovulating, she wanted to be less of a prude, to throw sense and politeness to the wind, to do something so wild and reckless that the details would make even Kate blush.

And more importantly, she wanted to do it with William Cooper.

With all due respect to the dead, _screw_ what his Oma Johanna or her mother would think.

She turned to walk back the way she'd come, going in search of her date. They'd parted barely five minutes ago, so he couldn't have gone very far. But which way would he be walking? He'd said he was only eight blocks on foot, but was that eight blocks in a straight line, or would he have turned at one of the upcoming streets?

She passed the restaurant and kept going. The polite, sensible voice in her head tried to tell her that maybe she wasn't supposed to find him, that maybe she was supposed to spend the night on her own, like the good, obedient girl her parents had always taught her to be. She quickened her pace, telling the voice to shut the fuck up.

She came to a junction, looked left, looked right. Relief wash over her as she spotted her date at the end of the street. She crossed the road, dodging oncoming cars, giving the finger to the woman who honked her horn at her, hurrying after him as fast as she could. "William!" she called out.

He stopped and turned, then, seeing who had shouted his name, started to walk back towards her. "Everything okay?" he asked, frowning.

She paused to catch her breath. "Actually, not really, no."

"What's wrong?"

"What's wrong"—she paused to choose the right words—"is how little excitement I've had in my life."

Another frown. "What're you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the fact I've spent my whole life trying to be the kind of woman my parents think their daughters should be."

"And what kind of woman is that?"

"The kind who never stayed out past curfew. Who never cut class or skipped school. Who never smoked, or took drugs, or drank before they were twenty-one. The kind who's only had three serious boyfriends by the time she turned twenty-nine." She broke off before her frustrations got the better of her and she accidentally scared him away.

But William Cooper was made of stern, unscareable stuff.

He gave her a kind but quizzical look. "Why are you telling me this?"

The answer came quickly. "Because I've known you for just over a week, spent barely five hours with you, and I feel like I could tell you anything," she said. "Because I'm sick and tired of playing it safe, and of always making the sensible choice." She stepped forward to lay a hand on his chest. "Because I don't want to be that woman tonight. Tonight, I think I want to be really naughty instead. And I don't give a flying _fuck_ if we're on our first date."

His eyes widened slightly. "You want to come home with me?" he murmured.

She grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked it until he leaned in. She kissed him softly. And then not so softly. He responded in kind, slipping his arms around her waist, roughly pulling her body up against his. Lust washed over and through her again. And she wasn't the only one, based on what she could feel grinding into her hip. It took every ounce of willpower she had not to grab him by the groin and order him to do her right there.

"I'm gonna take that as a yes," he asked when she pulled free, his breathing shallow, his voice low and hoarse.

She cupped his face with her hands and ran a thumb over his lower lip. "William?"

"Uh huh?"

"Do you have condoms back at your place?"

He smiled, embarrassed. "A whole unopened box of 'em, yeah."

"Then, take me home with you right now. And don't make me ask twice."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the night before...

**Sunday July 29th, 2001**

The sound of gentle snoring woke her.

Given how gentle, maybe snoring was too harsh a word. Whiffling, then. Or snuffling, even. It wasn't an earthquake level of noise, but it didn't need to be to rouse her, given what a light sleeper she was. But whatever word she would use to describe it and however disruptive it was, the noise in question was coming from William Cooper.

He was sprawled along the left side of the bed, his back towards her, facing out to the wall. His head was buried under a pile of pillows, but he'd kicked the cover off during the night (no doubt because of the heat), leaving the rest of his tanned, toned, gorgeous body resplendently on display. She took a moment to drink in the view, picking out features she'd been too busy to notice the night before. He had a tattoo on his right deltoid muscle—a tiny, delicate bird of prey with the words 'Eagle One' inscribed underneath. His broad shoulders were scattered with freckles, and his back displayed a handful of scars, including a round, angry, puckered welt a few inches above his right hip. Was this the scar from where he'd been shot? It certainly looked bullet-shaped. Resisting the urge to search for a matching scar on the front, she lightly traced a finger around it. William twitched at the touch, but didn't wake.

She continued with her review, trying to remember when she'd last seen such a beautiful ass. Not that she'd ever seen more than a few in the flesh, of course. And none as perfectly presented as this. She frowned as she noticed one cheek was covered with light, round, nickel-sized bruises, then giggled and slapped a hand to her mouth as she realized the marks perfectly matched the size and spread of her fingers. She didn't think she'd grabbed him that hard. Although, given the levels of pleasure they'd reached, especially during round number two, he was lucky he didn't have a matching pair of heel dents as well.

She tore her eyes away from the view and turned to check the clock at her side of the bed, wincing as her back muscles complained. It was coming up on quarter to eight. Well past the time she would normally wake on a Sunday, so there was no point in trying to go back to sleep.

She turned back to William, toying with the idea of rousing him for round number four. He was totally still and breathing deeply—very obviously out for the count. She kissed him lightly on his tattoo and left him to sleep. And not just because he'd more than earned his lie-in. He was a former Marine—probably highly-trained in various hand-to-hand methods—and this was the first time she'd slept in his bed. What if he didn't remember he wasn't alone, and her attempts to gently tease him awake ended with her being punched in the jaw? Not exactly a romantic conclusion to a first date.

She threw back the cover and swung her feet onto the floor, recoiling in shock as her right heel stood on something crinkly and wet. A quick glance over the edge of the bed showed it was only a condom wrapper, probably from round number three a mere four hours before, when William had kissed and stroked her awake, gently coaxed her onto her knees, then, with her long hair splashed across the pillow, positioned himself behind her and soundly fucked her into next week.

Grinning she snatched the wrapper and threw it into the trash. A good thing William's bathroom drawer had been so well supplied. She'd wanted to be wild and naughty, but not _that_ naughty. Diseases and babies were absolutely _not_ in her plans.

She scanned the room, looking for something to wear. She found her panties at the end of the bed, but there was no sign of her bra or her dress. They were probably on the living room floor, caught in a pile with William's boxers and jeans. She spotted his abandoned tee. Perfect. She grabbed it and slipped it over her head, savouring the slight masculine scent, then quietly let herself out of the room, pulling the door over behind her.

She found her abandoned bra in the hall. She picked it up, turning it over to check it for tears. The lace was delicate, and William's removal technique had been effective, but unrefined. To her relief, the bra had survived the night unscathed—no need to buy a replacement just yet. Wearing the set had been the right choice—William's eyes had almost popped out of his head when he'd seen it. Had she somehow known the night would end this way when she'd grabbed it out of the drawer? She pulled her shirt up to slip the bra on.

There wasn't much to William's basement apartment. A snug living room space at the front, a bathroom with a shower in the middle, a tiny bedroom at the back, and a half-galley kitchen along the side. It wouldn't cost anywhere _near_ as much as her place, but with DC rents the way they were, it still wouldn't be cheap. But he was twenty-nine and an ex-Marine—not exactly the 'single room in a student residence' type.

The place was small, but spotlessly clean, with not so much as a coffee mug or a book out of place. Not that he appeared to own enough mugs or books for some of them to _be_ out of place, but the cleanliness made an impression on her. No need to tidy up after a messy single man here. His belongings were few, and there wasn't much in the way of furniture in the living space either—a two-seater couch, a coffee table, a TV stand with a TV, a lamp, a bookcase and a few shelves. But the walls? They were a different story. They were covered in maybe a dozen pieces of art of various sizes and shapes. And not regular, boring mass-produced prints you could pick up at any home décor place. Proper art, made with canvas and paint, most with the same illegible signature scrawled at the bottom. Apart from a couple of more traditional pieces, they were all of startling, abstract shapes and swooping spirals of colour. And they were _beautiful_. He'd told her his Oma had trained as an artist after she'd come to the States. Were these pieces all hers?

She padded into the narrow kitchen to examine the coffee machine. It was pretty much the same as her own—water in the tank at the side and coffee in the pop-out basket. The coffee grounds, paper filters and mugs were all in the cupboard above. She filled the machine with enough water to make six cups, spooned in the grounds, set it running and stood back to wait.

Some photos on a shelf in the hall caught her eye. Three of them, square, small and slightly faded with age. One showed a grinning, gangly, teenaged boy standing beside a smiling, older, silver-haired man. Both were dressed in casual clothes and holding fishing rods in their hands; the boy was triumphantly holding up a fish as long as his arm. It was probably William and his grandfather. What was his name again? Michael, yes. Michael Cooper. The one who'd taught William how to sail, and whose ancestors had emigrated from County Down. There was some resemblance between the two men, but it wasn't strong.

The second photo was of the same teenaged boy, but this time, with a smiling, tawny-haired, middle-aged woman. They were sitting on a bench by a lake, and the woman was holding a lamb, of all things. If the boy was William, was the woman his mother? Maybe, but he looked no more like her than his grandfather.

The woman was also in the third photo, but younger, with longer hair, smiling and cuddling into a tall but scruffy good-looking man. In front of the couple stood two boys of maybe six or seven. The woman's hand was resting protectively on the shoulder of one, the man's on the shoulder of the other. It was very obviously a family photo—mom, dad and two beautiful kids. Was one of them William? If so, which one? She peered at the image, trying to pick out a face, then pulled back, frowning. Was her mind playing tricks on her, or apart from their clothes, did the two boys look almost _exactly_ the same?

She found more photos on a shelf near the stairs. These were larger and newer, and all of a group of young men. One of whom was _definitely_ William. Based on the t-shirts, the haircuts, the grins, the cigarettes and the bottles of beer, they were probably from his time in the Corps. Him and his buddies letting it all hang out at one of their wild Caligula parties. One photo showed a more formal scene—William in his full dress blues, complete with white cover and gloves, expression solemn, spine ramrod straight, holding a sword up with his right hand, saluting a passing man in a suit.

He looked as good in his dress blues as she'd expected.

At the end of the hall, a door creaked open. She leaned out to look, and there was her 'date', clad in a temptingly low-slung pair of sweats, hair mussed, blinking, yawning and rubbing his face. As he saw her, his lips curled into a smile. "Was wondering where my t-shirt had gone. Should've figured you would've grabbed it." He met her in the living room, leaning in to give her a kiss. This time, there was no moment of hesitation or shyness. Having passionate sex with someone three times in one night probably went a long way to overcoming any remaining sense of reserve. "Last night was amazing," he told her when they parted. "Strenuous, but amazing."

She snaked her arms around his waist and up his back, enjoying the smooth warmth of his skin. "You used to be a Marine. Good cardio workout like that shouldn't be a problem for you."

"Who said it was a problem?"

"It sounded to me like you were complaining."

"Right now, the only thing I'm complaining about is how sore my goddamn knees are."

"Don't look at me. _I_ was asleep," she said, holding a spread-fingered hand to her chest. "Wasn't like I told you to wake me up and do it that way."

He shrugged. "Figured you might enjoy it."

"I did. Very much." Suddenly, she felt strangely self-conscious. "Never tried it in that position before," she quietly admitted.

His brows shot up. "Really?"

Heat crept onto her cheeks as she nodded.

"You weren't kidding about the whole 'no excitement' thing, huh?" he said, but not unkindly.

"I have literally led the _most_ boring life you can think of. The only way it could be more boring is if I had become a nun."

"Pretty sure I can help you with that."

She crossed her arms. "Oh, yeah? What did you have in mind?"

He took her arms, uncrossed them, placed them back around his waist and pulled her close to kiss her again. "Gimme a couple of months, I'll take you through every position I know," he said, his voice heavy with desire.

"Any favourites I should be aware of?" she asked, feeling her own desire building inside. This was ridiculous. Fifteen minutes out of bed and she was ready to jump him all over again. Was there something _wrong_ with her? Had she suddenly developed an emotional or hormonal disorder? Because she couldn't remember ever feeling like this, not with John, not with James, not with Nathaniel, not even when she'd been in her teens.

He cupped her ass with his hands. "Let's just say it's amazing what you can do with a coffee table and a pillow when you put your mind to it."

She grabbed the drawstring of his sweats.

The coffee maker beeped.

He glanced down at her hand and sighed. "Please don't take this the wrong way, but I _really_ need a cup of coffee."

Trying not to scream, she let go of the string. "To be fair, you _did_ lose a lot of fluids last night."

He pulled away and strode to the kitchen, fetching two mugs out of the cupboard. "I assume you want some as well?"

"Yes, please."

"How do you take it?"

She giggled. Three times a night, on both her back and her knees, it seemed.

"The coffee, dumbass. Get your mind out of the gutter."

"If my mind's in the gutter, Mister Cooper, it's only because you dragged it down to your level. I'll have you know, I used to be a respectable girl."

"Miss McNally, nothing about what we did to each other last night was _remotely_ respectable. Trust me."

"You'd know much better than me. Oh, and black, no sugar, please."

He poured two mugs, brought one through to the living room for her, then disappeared back into the kitchen. "I need to eat," he said. "Gonna make some toast. You want some?"

"Sure."

"One slice or two?"

"Just one. With jam if you have it?"

"Jam?" he exclaimed. "Jesus. You're fancy."

"Just be glad I'm not asking for avocado and salmon, okay?"

"Who the fuck puts avocado and salmon on _toast_?"

Her mother, for one. Although, not every day—usually only on Sunday at brunch.

She heard the fridge door open and close. "You're in luck," he said. "Found some jelly at the back of the fridge. Raspberry and apple, I think? Pretty sure it's been here since I moved in."

She rolled her eyes. He might know how to keep his place clean, but he was a typical guy in other ways.

"When was that?" she asked.

"Um, just over a year ago?"

"Is the jar damaged, or has it been opened?"

She heard a tapping sound. "No, and it's still vacuum sealed."

"Then it's probably fine."

"If you say so," he said. "You're the one who'll end up with botulism if it isn't."

"It's fine. Trust me. I used to make jam all the time with my mom. If it's sealed, it's good for at least a couple of years."

"Then jam it is."

She grabbed a seat on the couch, setting her coffee cup on the table. "Nice place you have here by the way. Not at all what I expected."

He chuckled. "You thought I'd be in a student residence, right?"

"Or, have a tiny, single room in one of those old, ramshackle ten people houses."

"Spent six years living elbow to cheek with five other guys. By the end of it, I could barely remember what privacy was. When I moved to DC, I decided I wanted a place of my own, even if it was the size of a shoebox."

"Just curious as to how you afford it. Even something this small must come with a decent rent."

"The guy who lives upstairs, Alex, he's in Sales, so he works crazy hours, and he's on the road for a lot of the month. He wanted to rent his basement to someone more mature he knew he could trust, who wouldn't throw parties or cause trouble with the cops while he's gone. Plus, he used to be in the Corps, trained as a Fiscal Technician, so he was willing to do a fellow jarhead a deal."

" _Semper fidelis_ , right?"

"Absolutely."

"Speaking of your time in the Corps, is that when you got the tattoo on your shoulder?"

"Uh, no, actually. It's hard to get into MESG when you have a tattoo, in case they need to send you somewhere it's a cultural no-no, like the UAE or Japan."

"So, you got it after?"

"In early ninety-eight, yeah, as a belated twenty-fifth birthday present."

"Who from?"

"Just me." He snickered. "My budget couldn't quite stretch to a Merc."

She huffed and rolled her eyes. "Are you _ever_ gonna let that go?"

"You let me drive it sometime, I might think about it."

Time to negotiate like a lawyer. "You wanna drive us up to the Geller house later?"

"Sure."

"You drive us there, I'll drive us back. Deal?"

"Deal."

She made a small victory fist. Mission 'Get Over The Car Already' accomplished. "So, why an eagle?" she asked.

"Sorry?"

"The tattoo. It's an eagle right?"

"An Imperial Eagle, yeah."

It wasn't a breed she'd ever heard of. "Why not a bald one? The eagle, I mean. Wouldn't that be more patriotic?"

"Probably."

She waited, but no other explanation was forthcoming. "And it says Eagle One underneath. What does that mean?" she asked, sure she already knew the answer. "Was that your call sign when you were in the Corps?"

A pause, then, "Something like that."

Tentatively, she said, "I, uh, I was also admiring the art on your walls."

"Uh huh?" he asked in a circumspect tone.

"Are these pieces all your grandmother's work? I mean, I remember you told me she trained as an artist when she came to the States, so I just assumed they were hers."

He sighed. "She, uh, she left them to me, yeah."

Something about his answer seemed wrong, but she couldn't be sure without seeing his face.

"They're beautiful."

"Did you see the one in the bedroom? Cus it's the best of the lot."

"I didn't, no." She rose from the couch to walk back to the other room. "Oh, _wow_ ," she said, as she saw the piece above the bed. An inferno of colours arranged in an almost kaleidoscopic pattern—warping over and back in on each other—but instead of brush strokes, each layer of colour had been created with precisely trailed drips. "That's amazing. How the _hell_ did I even miss that?"

He snickered. "Because I didn't switch on the light, and you had some more, um, _pressing_ matters to deal with?"

Pressing. Yes. That was a diplomatic way to put it.

"That one's my favourite out of all of the pieces," he told her. "Why I've got it in the room on its own."

"Does it have a name?" she asked.

"Yeah, it's called _Reality's Existence_."

That didn't make sense. "Okay, but how could reality _not_ exist?"

"It's an art thing, so no idea. You're the one who took the philosophy courses. You should know much better than me."

"Yeah, except I took moral philosophy credits. The study of what's right and wrong. Reality falls under metaphysics. That's a whole 'nother thing."

"Take your word for it. You could fit what I know about philosophy on the back of a stamp."

"Didn't the Marine Corps make you read _The Art of War_?"

"That's only if you go to Officer Candidate School. Grunts like me only needed to know how to point and shoot."

"And it _was_ at the time when all you could manage by way of reading was colouring books."

She heard him huff. "I'll have you know, colouring's a valuable skill."

"You gotta keep the colour inside the lines, right?"

"In the Corps, that's worth a service medal all on its own."

She wandered back to the living room, to the set of newer, larger photos. "Speaking of the Corps, I guess these photos next to the stairs are of you and the guys in your unit?"

"One from each of my postings, yeah."

"Who's the torn-faced guy in the suit? From the photo where you're holding the sword?"

"Some visiting ambassador guy. Don't really remember."

The toaster popped. Twenty seconds later, he came out of the kitchen to hand her a plate. "Toast with jelly, just like you asked."

She wrinkled her nose. "You didn't cut all the crusts off."

He rolled his eyes. "Jesus, how much of a princess are you? First, the Mercedes, then the pony, now you don't eat crusts?"

"I'm _kidding_ ," she said, grinning, taking the plate. "Crusts are fine."

"Next you'll be asking me to make you hand-picked, herbal tea in a pot," he muttered.

She shook her head. "Filter coffee's fine. Just don't ever serve me instant, okay?"

"I might be poor, but I'm not _that_ poor."

She bit off a chunk of her toast and grabbed her mug to wash it down with a mouthful of coffee. "What about these other photos?" she asked, walking up to the three in the hall, of William with who she assumed was various family members. "Is that you with your grandfather in the one on the left?"

He stepped into the hall, chewing on toast, nodding, smiling softly. "That was the summer I turned fifteen. We spent most of the school holidays fishing."

"Can I just say, I'm glad your hair doesn't look like that now?"

"It was the late eighties, okay? Floppy hair was all the rage." He prodded her gently on the shoulder. "Doubt you were a paragon of style and taste at that age, either."

"I'll have you know, when I was fifteen, miniskirts and lace fingerless gloves were the absolute _height_ of fashion."

"Fashion, right. Let's go with that."

She pointed to the second photo. "Is that you with your mom?"

He said nothing, but simply nodded. But it was progress of a sorts. At least now, she knew he _had_ a mother.

"You, uh, you want some more coffee?" he asked, deftly cutting her off just as she was about to raise the third photo. "Cus I'm gonna top mine up."

"I'm good, thanks."

She peered at the third image again. He'd said 'we' at lunch on Thursday when talking about his time in Berlin, which implied he wasn't an only child. The photo _must_ be of him with his brother. She was desperate to ask—where was that brother now? Hell, where was his mother now? And the man his mother was leaning against, who could surely only be his father?

She moved away, curious, but accepting it wasn't yet her story to know. It was obviously a difficult topic—he would open up and share it with her in his own good time.

She spied a bundle of clothes on the floor, down the side of the coffee table. "Ah hah," she said.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

She set her mug and plate on the table. "Just found my dress," she said, picking it up and flicking it out to check it for wrinkle damage. Not so much she would look dishevelled wearing it home. "Oh, and your pants." She grabbed them, pulled out both bunched-up legs and folded them over the back of the couch. The mints he'd grabbed in the restaurant fell out of the front pocket. She scooped them up and threw them onto the table. "Think your boxers are in there as well."

He came out of the kitchen. "Sorry about that," he said, looking slightly sheepish. "I should've left them somewhere nicer than the floor."

"We had other things on our minds. And at least we made it to the house before my dress came off."

"Just so you know, it was a _very_ close call. When we passed that alley three blocks away, I almost hauled you in there and tore it off you right there."

He seemed to like tearing. She made a mental note not to wear her most expensive lingerie sets for the foreseeable future. Once they were past the first irrational flush of lust, _then_ she could bring out the Coup de Foudre again. "What stopped you?" she asked.

"Various things. Didn't have a condom with me." He scrunched his nose. "And it's not exactly the cleanest of alleys."

She snickered. "Nothing like stepping on a dead rat to ruin the moment, huh?"

"Or a homeless guy."

She pointed her thumb to the ceiling. "Speaking of homeless guys, I haven't heard any noise from upstairs. Is your landlord around?"

"He's away on a business trip to Ohio. Won't be back until Thursday."

"That's a relief."

"Why?"

"I, uh, I was kinda worried about all the noise we made."

He shook his head. "Don't be. Alex had the basement ceilings redone when he converted the space to a rental unit. The soundproofing's solid. There could be two elephants humping upstairs right now, you wouldn't hear a thing."

That was… comforting, she guessed?

She checked the time as she finished her toast. Coming up on five past eight. If they were going to make it to Van Ness for one-ish, and have time to stop for a gift on the way, she would have to leave her place before twelve-thirty. And she wanted to have at least two hours to get home, shower, dress and do her make-up and hair.

"Penny for your thoughts," he said.

"Oh, nothing. Just figuring out when I have to leave."

He frowned. "Not yet, though, right?"

"Need to be out of here by ten-thirty, so not for a while."

"Great."

She narrowed her eyes. "Why's that great?"

He shrugged. "No particular reason." His lips curled as he sipped on his coffee. "Just, uh, wondered, once you've had your breakfast, if you might be up for round number four?"

By eleven o'clock, she was back at her place, standing under a lukewarm, high pressure shower, washing the last of her sins and sexual adventures away.

Round number four had been even better, longer and more creative than round number three. William was right. It _was_ amazing what you could do with a coffee table and a pillow when you put your mind to it. She was far more flexible than she'd thought. And Jesus, the _noise_ they'd both made. Elephant-grade soundproofing or not, she'd been glad his landlord wasn't at home.

She'd left his place just after ten. She'd briefly considered asking him to come to hers with her, so the two of them could have a coffee and snack before heading out in the car together, but she'd then decided to return on her own. And not just because she'd had a couple of chores to do and he'd wanted to make a quick trip to the gym—she'd realized that if he came to her place, they'd only end up in bed all over again. Once they started, it would be hard to stop, and if she had any hopes of ever being promoted to partner, she couldn't miss or be late for today's event.

It was ridiculous, though, how eager she was to see William again, even though they'd parted barely an hour ago. Fake date or not, she was falling for him, fast and hard, and the intensity of her feelings alarmed her. It might not do any harm to ease off the gas and take the next couple of days at a walking pace instead of a run. Except William seemed to be just as keen. He'd been in no rush for her to leave, had made it clear he would be happy to kiss and cuddle in bed until they were ready for round number five.

She turned the shower dial all the way down, gasping as the freezing water drove icy needles into her skin. Ten seconds was all she could take—would it be enough to keep her raging hormones at bay until the charade of the work party was done? She closed the tap and pulled back the curtain to pick up her towel.

The phone started to ring.

Cursing, she quickly squeezed out her hair, wrapped herself up, stepped out, dried her feet and darted into her bedroom next door.

She grabbed the phone. "Hello?" she said.

"Well, well, well," her younger sister drawled. "Look who finally decided to answer their phone. Where in the hell have _you_ been since six-thirty last night?"

"I was out for dinner."

"Until eleven o'clock this morning?" Kate snorted. "That's a _hell_ of a dinner."

There was no point in lying—Kate had a talent for sniffing out the truth, especially when men were involved. And it wasn't as if she would judge. Comment, yes. Interrogate, yes. Tease, yes. Judge, never. "I stayed over at someone's place," Michelle explained. "Just got home a short while ago."

"And was this someone a guy?"

"As it happens, yes, it was."

Kate let out a theatrical gasp; Michelle could almost hear her swooning and clutching her pearls. "Jesus Christ. Call out the goddamn National Guard. My sister stayed over at a guy's place. Her virtue might be under attack."

"You're hilarious."

"I'm the baby of the family. Course I fucking am."

"So, what's up?"

"Nuh uh. You're not getting off that easy." Kate snickered. "Or, maybe you are. You tell me."

Michelle rolled her eyes. "Now, you're just being crude."

"Was it good?"

"Was what good?"

"The _sex_ , dummy. Did he rock your world so hard you almost passed into the spiritual plane?"

"What makes you think we had sex?" Michelle asked, slightly more defensively than she'd intended.

"Hate to break it to you, sis, but _nobody_ stays over at a guy's place and _doesn't_ have sex, unless he's just a friend." A pause, then, " _Is_ he just a friend?"

"No, he's more than a friend." At least, she thought William was—she wasn't quite sure. She decided not to mention the whole 'fake dating' thing. Kate wouldn't disapprove—she'd probably done something just as stupid herself—but she couldn't explain the whole story without describing what Ian had done, and she didn't want to go there right now. Kate would feel the same as William, expect her to string Ian up by his balls.

"Then start talking."

"The sex was amazing." Michelle admitted. She grinned to herself as she sat on her bed. "All four times."

"Four times?" Kate exclaimed. "Jesus, what the hell is he, sixteen?"

"He's twenty-nine. And to be fair, three of the times were over the space of six hours last night. We tackled round four this morning."

"Okay, but exactly how amazing are we talking here?"

"One time, it felt so good, I swear I blacked out for a couple of seconds."

"Wow, that's good."

"I wasn't complaining."

"And, uh, how does Captain Recovery measure up? If you get what I'm saying?"

"I do, and the answer's none of your goddamn business."

"I guess if he almost made you pass out, he's gotta be pretty well-equipped in the trouser department."

"Guess all you want, I'm still not telling." She trusted Kate with her life, but some things were just too private to share. "And you know as well as I do that size has absolutely nothing to do with talent."

"I was gonna say it's only guys with small dicks who say that, but then I remember Adam."

"Was he the one who could—?"

"Yup, that was him."

"I rest my case."

"So, what's Mister Hot Stud's name?" Kate asked. "Are you at least allowed to tell me that?"

Surely, that couldn't do any harm? "His name's William. William Cooper."

"And how long have you and this William Cooper been seeing each other?"

Shit.

"We met last Thursday."

Technically, not a lie.

"Last Thursday? Jesus, you're moving fast. How many dates have the two of you been on?"

"See, there's the funny thing."

"Mike…"

Michelle sighed. "Just one, last night."

Silence.

"Michelle Alison McNally," Kate whispered in a scandalized tone. The pearls would be taking a beating. "Did you sleep with someone on the first date?"

"So what if I did?"

"That's fan-fucking-tastic!" Kate shouted, loud enough to make Michelle wince and hold the phone away from her ear. "And it only took you ten years to figure out how."

"Please don't tell mom," Michelle pleaded.

Their mother was slightly more laid-back than their father, except when it came to marriage and sex. On those topics, Helen McNally's views were very firmly on the Pope's side. If she had her way, no daughter of hers would ever do the dirty deed before marriage, much less on a first date, in a variety of filthy and stimulating positions.

"Why the _hell_ would I ever tell her that?"

"I dunno. Just if you were trying to get me in trouble or something."

Kate blew out a pissed-off sigh. "Mike, I am _not_ Dan."

"I know. Sorry."

"And are you forgetting how much trouble you could drop me in right back?"

"Good point, yeah."

"So, you've got a hot new guy called William, you slept with him on the first date, and the sex was so good that even the neighbours had a cigarette after. What else should I know?"

"He's a mature student, taking the undergrad in International History at the SFS."

"That's one of the Georgetown faculties, right?"

"The School of Foreign Service, yeah."

"Very loyal and inbred of you. What else?"

"He used to be a Marine."

Kate made an appreciative sound. "Probably why he can get it up three times in one night. His stamina'll be off the charts."

"He, uh, he's pretty fit, yeah," Michelle said.

It wasn't the most appropriate word she could use, but it _was_ the politest.

"Cute?"

" _Very_."

"Tall?"

"Um, maybe six one or six two?"

"Hair?"

"Brown."

"Eyes?"

"Hazel, so depends on the light."

"Personality?"

"Yes."

"I mean what's it _like_ , dummy, not does he actually have one."

Michelle had realized that, but sometimes, it was good to remind her sister that she wasn't the only one who could be a smartass. "Kind, smart, funny, polite, good listener, really nice sense of humour."

"Nice ass?"

"Looks like it fell off a Greek god."

Kate grunted in disgust. "Can't believe how goddamn lucky you are," she muttered.

"Wait 'til you hear how we met. You're gonna want to strangle me then."

"Don't suppose he has an available younger brother?"

Michelle frowned. "I thought you were dating someone called Steve."

"I was. We broke up on Wednesday night."

Oh, dear. Another (probably inadequate) man ruthlessly tossed in the trash. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. He was a rotten lay."

"Is that why you broke up with him?"

"What if it was?"

What was a delicate way to put it? "It's, um, it's kinda _shallow_ , don't you think?" Michelle said. "To dump a guy just because you think the sex isn't good?"

"We can't all find a man as capable with his cock as William."

Michelle wrinkled her nose. "Could you _please_ stop being so crude?"

"It's my _job_ to be crude," Kate protested. "You're the nice one, Dan's the asshole, I'm the one with a mouth like a sewer. Remember?"

"You shouldn't call Dan an asshole."

"Why the fuck not?"

"Because he's our _brother_."

"So fucking what? He doesn't stop being an asshole to us just because we're his sisters."

Sadly, Kate made a good point. "It's the principle. You shouldn't talk about family members like that."

"I've done a lot worse than call him an asshole. Like that one time when I—"

"—I don't want to know," Michelle said, reflexively raising a hand. "What I don't know can't be used in court against me later."

"Jesus, Mike. Do you ever _not_ think like a lawyer?"

"I wasn't thinking like a lawyer at nine o'clock this morning."

Unless she'd missed the section of the Bar that covered the best way to bite into a pillow.

Kate giggled. "If the sex was as good as you say, you probably weren't thinking at all."

"I couldn't possibly comment."

"So, when are you seeing him again? William, I mean. Not Dan."

Michelle checked the clock. "In about ninety minutes."

"Hmm, I get it. Quick break to wash and change, then regroup for another vigorous couple of rounds, right?"

"Actually, we're going out for lunch."

"Okay, so food first, sex after."

"Dating isn't all about sex, you know."

"Since _when_?"

Michelle sighed. "You're incorrigible."

"But you love me anyway."

"Yeah, I guess I do."

"So, when do I get to meet him?"

There was a worrying thought. What would Kate make of William? And what would William make of Kate? Michelle was in no rush to find out. "Not for a while. We just started dating. And I _really_ like him, so I don't want to frighten him off."

"I only frighten off the assholes. If he's as nice as you say, I'll leave him alone."

"That's what you said before you met John."

"Don't think it was me who frightened John off, babe. Pretty sure that was mom and dad's fault."

"Yeah, but there were a couple of moments when you didn't exactly help."

"Not _my_ fault he couldn't take a joke about everyone in Australia having a criminal record."

"Uh huh." Michelle leaned out to glance in the mirror. She _really_ needed to deal with her hair—time to stop chatting and get to the point. "So, why are you calling?" she asked.

"What, a girl can't phone her big sister on Sunday morning for a chat?"

"She can, but if you've been calling me since six-thirty last night, it means you want something from me as well."

Kate huffed. "I think you just hurt my feelings."

"Kate," Michelle warned.

"Okay, okay." Another sigh. "I, uh, I _might_ need to borrow some cash."

"See, this is the problem with being a lawyer. You know no matter how well a story starts, the sordid truth's always gonna come out in the end."

"It's not the _only_ reason I was calling. I did actually want to check how you were doing as well."

"How much do you need?"

"Um, just under three grand?"

"Three grand?" Michelle exclaimed. "What the hell for?"

"It's complicated."

"Jesus, you're as bad as William," Michelle muttered.

"Sorry?"

"Never mind." Michelle's blood ran as cold as her shower. "Kate?"

"What?"

"You're not in some kind of trouble, are you?"

"What kind of trouble would I be in?" Kate snickered. "I mean, other than the usual stuff."

"It's, uh, it's not _medical_ trouble, is it?"

"I don't have a fast-rising bun in the oven, if that's what you mean."

It was; relief flooded through her. "Okay, good."

"And I don't have any gambling debts with a Baltimore mob boss, either."

"So, why do you need the money?"

Kate sighed. "You're gonna make me tell you, aren't you?"

"You know how I feel about lending money. I'm happy to help, but only once I know what it's for."

A pause as Kate weighed up her options, another heavy sigh, then, "I need the money to fix up my car."

"Your car?" Michelle repeated. "The hell did you do to it?"

"I had an accident."

Michelle shot up from the bed. "What kind of accident? Was anyone hurt? Oh, my God, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, but my car isn't."

"What did you do?"

"I, uh, I might have accidentally reversed it into a traffic bollard."

Michelle squeezed her eyes shut. Only her wonderful, idiot baby sister. "How the _hell_ did you manage that?"

"I was trying to do a three-point turn in the campus car-park. Except the space was really tight, so it kinda turned into an eleven-point turn, and I _might_ have forgotten to check my mirrors."

"You could claim it on the insurance."

"Yeah, but dad pays for the policy, so if I make a claim, he's gonna find out what I did."

Michelle knew exactly what that would mean. "And then you'll be summoned home for a four-hour lecture on the importance of taking care of your belongings."

"Exactly."

"Fine. I'll put three grand in your account tomorrow."

Anything to spare her sister from another parental lecture. It wasn't that Kate didn't occasionally need them—the last three years of her life had been a series of lecture-worthy events—but their father had a way of making even the smallest transgression feel like a hanging offence. When it came to his daughters, at least. She was pretty sure he would allow Dan to literally get away with murder.

"You've always been my favourite sister," Kate said.

"I'm your _only_ sister."

"That doesn't make what I said a lie."

"It doesn't make it completely accurate, either."

"Details, details."

"I _really_ hope that's not gonna be something you eventually say to your patients."

"Believe it or not, I _do_ actually know when details matter."

"Uh huh."

"While we're talking about what a fantastic sister you are, are you still okay to come through to Baltimore on the eleventh?"

"Course I am. Looking forward to it. Feel like I haven't seen you in months."

"Good. But just so you know, you can be as prim and restrained as you want about William over the phone, but as soon as I open the bottle of wine, you're gonna tell me the whole story, okay?"

"You're only twenty. You shouldn't be drinking yet."

"Mike, honey, the things I get up to, that's the _least_ of your concerns."

"Don't tell me, please. Especially if you're breaking the law."

"I'm not, and I won't. But I meant what I said. You come to see me, you need to be ready to spill the beans. All of 'em. In full, glorious technicolour. I wanna know everything from what positions you've tried to how good he is with his tongue."

"Did I mention he can speak three languages fluently?"

"If that's a euphemism, it's a little obscure."

"It's a literal statement. He _can_ actually speak three languages."

"Really?"

"Really." Michelle giggled. "But yeah, it's also a euphemism."

Kate cackled. "So, he's smart, cute, has a nice ass _and_ he gives good head. Jesus. Just marry him, already, okay?"

"Did I mention he's basically Irish Catholic as well?"

"Oh, man," Kate muttered. "Mom's gonna think he's the second coming of Christ."

"As long as she doesn't find out I slept with him on the first date."

"From the sounds of it, I don't think anyone was doing much sleeping."

"I'm saying nothing."

"That's because you can't talk when you have a dick in your mouth."

"Do you _have_ to be so crude?"

"Sorry."

"And, between you and me, we actually haven't tried that yet."

"Really?"

Michelle went to her dresser, grabbed her brush and started to comb out her hair. "I need to know I can trust him, okay? It's not something I can do the first night."

"But you _can_ let him bang you six ways from Sunday."

"That's different. That's… _normal_."

"Hate to be the one to tell you, Mike, but most people think giving a guy a blow job is normal."

"I know. It's not that I don't want to. I just need to be ready for it."

"Has he complained?"

"Not about that, no."

"What about, then?"

"He thinks I'm a princess because I drive a Mercedes and used to have a pony."

"Umm…"

"Don't you _dare_ say he's right," Michelle warned. "Raffles was yours just as much as mine."

"Yeah, but I _know_ I'm a princess."

"A princess with a mouth like a sewer."

"You think what I _say_ with it's dirty, you should see how else I use it."

There was an image she didn't need. "Did I mention you're incorrigible?"

"Probably. But I wasn't listening. Too busy looking at the hot guy in the garden of the apartment block next door." Kate sighed and murmured, "Wonder if he's single?"

Michelle snapped her fingers. "Okay, can you maybe focus for, like, twenty more seconds?"

"What languages?"

"Sorry?"

"You said William speaks three languages. Which ones?"

"Right, uh, English, German and Russian."

"Why the _hell_ does he speak Russian?"

Michelle wouldn't mind knowing the answer to that question herself. "We haven't gotten to that part of his personal history yet."

"Why the fuck didn't you just ask him?"

"I did."

"And?"

"He told me it was complicated."

"He better not be a spy," Kate warned.

"He's not a spy."

"How do you know?"

"I just do."

"Wow. Authority fallacy. I'm impressed."

"It's not an authority fallacy. It's a just because fallacy. There's a difference."

"Oh, well. Excuse the philosophical fuck out of me."

"If you're going to insult me, at least get it right. And he's _not_ a spy. If he was a spy, the Marine Corps would have found out when they ran the background checks for his security clearance."

"I'll maybe give you that."

"Thank you."

"Speaking of background checks, did you tell him about the family money?"

"Of course not."

"Good call."

"This isn't my first rodeo, you know."

"Only, what, your third?"

"Fourth, actually. And stop saying that like it's a bad thing. We can't all break into double digits."

"What makes you think I'm still in doubles?"

"Please tell me that was a joke."

"I honestly don't know. I stopped counting a long time ago."

Michelle's skull started to pound. "Well, I guess as long as you're not making diseases or babies, it's fine."

"That goes for you as well," Kate warned. "You can accidentally make a baby with the fourth guy just as easily as with the four hundredth."

"I know. And don't worry, we're good." Michelle smirked. "But I might need to buy shares in Durex or Trojan if we have a repeat of last night."

Kate groaned. "Jesus, Mike, will you _please_ just put yourself on the Pill? Keep using rubbers as well if you have to, but don't make them your only method. Compared to the Pill, their failure rate's _lousy_."

"I'm just not comfortable with the Pill, okay?"

"You need to stop caring about what the Pope thinks. He's a stuffy, old white guy who's never had sex in his life. How much sex you do or don't have, and how many babies you do or don't make is none of his goddamn fucking business."

"It's more than just that. I tried it when I was dating John, and I didn't like how it made me feel." Bloated, moody, sick to her stomach and ironically, totally indifferent to sex. Although, John had been nowhere near as creative as William in the sack—that might have had something to do with it as well.

"Then try a different brand!"

"Would you feel better if I promise to talk to my doctor again?"

"Yes. And if you end up sticking with rubbers, just make sure you always have one on you. It's easy to say you're not gonna do anything naughty when you don't have one, but that's a _bitch_ of a promise to keep when you're in the actual heat of the moment. Don't end up with a bun in the oven just because you're too embarrassed to put a condom in your coat pocket."

"I'll make sure William buys plenty of them."

"Good. Let him carry his share of the can. And tell him he doesn't get laid without one, okay?"

"Yes, mother."

"Jesus," Kate muttered. "What's the world coming to when I'm the one giving you advice about how not to get knocked up?"

"It's not really messed up until I give you advice about how to give a guy head."

"You said that advice was useful."

"Best advice I've ever received."

"Better than dad's advice to always marry someone with money?"

"Let's just say, with William, your advice is gonna be far more useful than dad's."

"So, he's not from money?"

"He thinks people who put avocado and salmon on their toast are weird."

Kate snickered. " _Definitely_ not the type of guy who wears boat shoes or Nantucket Reds."

"No."

Although, if his grandfather had taught him to sail, he may once have owned a pair of the former…

"That bother you?" Kate asked.

"Course it doesn't. If anything, it's a relief. Means he doesn't have family baggage." At least, not relating to money—he might have baggage of a whole 'nother type.

"You _do_ realize, if this ever gets serious enough that you want to introduce him to the rest of the clan, that mom might like him, but dad and Dan'll treat him like shit?"

Michelle sighed. "Yeah."

Even the first time she and William had met, at lunch a week and a half ago, she'd known that would be a problem. Her father and brother would look down on William because he hadn't gone to an Ivy League school, and didn't have either a trust fund or a 'good family name'. Whatever the hell a 'good family name' was. Her family was unusual in that its wealth had survived intact for more than two generations, but, except in her, Kate and one of her cousins, the recognition of its humble beginnings hadn't. Ironically, their own great-grandfather had probably started out in life just as poor and unimportant as William Cooper's.

"Think he'll be able to handle it?" Kate asked.

"He handled being shot and almost bleeding to death. Pretty sure he'll be able to handle our father and brother."

"Don't be so sure about that. There are times when I'm with dad, and he goes into one of his rants about welfare mothers or socialism, I think I'd rather be shot if it meant not having to listen to him."

"He does get a bit much, doesn't he?"

"Wouldn't be so bad if he could at least keep a lid on the sexist crap. I swear, he forgets two thirds of his children are daughters."

"Let's worry about how well the family will take to William once we reach the point where they'll actually meet. For all I know, I could be done with him by the end of next week."

"Mike, honey, if the two of you are having _that_ much sex, the only thing that'll be done by the end of next week is you, in another round of kinky positions."

"Did I mention you're incorrigible?"

"Doesn't mean I'm not right. I can practically _smell_ how much you like him."

"There's a lot about him to like, okay?"

"Bet you he's a serial killer."

"He's not a serial killer."

"I dunno. Tall, good-looking, kind, polite, great in bed. Sounds like a serial killer to me. Has he ever tortured, dismembered or burned any small animals that you know of?"

"You've been living in Baltimore too long. You need to stop reading those shitty Hannibal Lecter novels." Not that her own reading habits were any better.

"The way my love life's going right now, Hannibal Lecter's starting to look like a catch. I'm coming to the conclusion that all the half-decent men in this city are either gay or married."

Why did the way Kate said it make the hairs on the back of her neck stand up? "KitKat, for the love of God, please, don't go getting involved with a married man," Michelle pleaded.

"Fuck that. Married man's gonna have even more emotional baggage than _I_ do."

"You'll find a nice guy. You just have to be patient."

"Eh, whatever. I'm not even twenty-one yet. Not like I'm in any hurry."

Michelle glanced at the clock. "Speaking of being in a hurry, I gotta run. Need to leave in forty-five minutes, wanna have plenty of time to do my make-up and hair."

"What are you wearing?"

She went to her wardrobe to skim through the rack. "Not sure. Was thinking the grey dress I bought in LA. Or maybe the blue one I wore to Jason and Anna's wedding."

"Wear the blue one," Kate said. "The grey dress is nice, but a little too prim. Not quite slutty enough for a date."

Except, the occasion wasn't a date. "What makes you think I want to be slutty?"

"Uh, the fact you spent most of last night giving your boyfriend friction burns on his dick?"

This time, she didn't bother to ask Kate not to be crude. "I promise to at least try the blue one."

"Good enough for me. Just enjoy yourself, okay? You can tell me all the gory details later."

"What gory details are we gonna have from a lunch?"

Kate snorted. "You know as well as I do it's not gonna end with a lunch. Two hours from now, you'll be back at your place, wearing only your Louboutins, taking it from him over the back of the sofa."

Now, _there_ was an interesting suggestion…

"Is that a problem? Michelle said.

"Course it isn't. Just don't fuck on your living room rug. It looks soft, but it'll actually give you the worst _ever_ burns."

"Uh, and how the hell would you know _that_?"

"Okay, I gotta run," Kate hastily said. "Love you, say 'hi' to Sergeant Stamina for me, have a great afternoon."

The line clicked and went dead.

Swearing under her breath, Michelle put the phone back in the cradle. Still wrapped in her towel, she went to the kitchen, grabbed a pen and a post it note, scrawled 'clean living room rug' and stuck the note on the fridge.

Time to dress and put on her face.

But first, what to do with her hair…


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> William and Michelle make their way to the company party...

In the end, she wore the blue dress.

But not because of the slutty factor. Yes, it showed slightly more cleavage and thigh than the grey one (but not so much as to make her look cheap), but it also had elbow-length sleeves, and was made of a slightly heavier cloth. The heat of the previous night had vanished, and the forecast today was for a high of seventy with a chance of light rain—not quite warm enough to leave her arms as bare as her knees.

She was only surprised her knees weren't so raw she couldn't show them in public…

Parping her horn, she pulled up in front of William's house. He must have been listening for the car, because he appeared on the step after barely three seconds. She was relieved to see he'd dressed as nicely as he'd promised. He was clean-shaven, with hair neatly combed, wearing a crisp, form-fitting pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to mid-arms, teamed with a classic pair of khaki Dockers. It was a safe, business casual look, but safe was what she needed today. He paused just long enough to lock up, then made his way out to the car. But instead of going for the passenger seat, he walked around to the driver-side door, grinning, gesturing for her to get out of the vehicle.

Dammit. She'd forgotten all about their agreement. But a deal was a deal, and she never, ever went back on her word, no matter how painful the outcome might be. She slipped the transmission into park, unclipped her belt, opened the door and clambered out.

She held up a warning finger. "This car is my baby. You put so much as a single scratch on it, I'll have your lungs on a plate for dinner."

He blinked in surprise. "Nice to see you again, too." He kissed her, using his whole body to press her against the car. As always, he smelled amazing—clean and fresh, but warm and masculine at the same time. Just when she was starting to wonder if they really needed to go to the party, he pulled away and politely but firmly pushed her aside to slip into the driver's seat. Sighing, she walked around the car to let herself in at the passenger side.

It was strange, not to be in control. And of more than just the car.

"You look nice," he said as she sank into her seat.

" _Nice_?" she repeated. "Is that the best you can do?"

"You look amazing," was his second attempt. "Style really flatters your figure, and the colour really brings out your eyes."

"Much better." She picked a piece of fluff from his shirt. "You don't look too shabby yourself."

"I _did_ promise to wear a nice shirt."

"And I'm glad to see you're a man of your word." She turned to pull her seatbelt down. "You know how to get to Van Ness from here?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No idea. But that's why you're here. You can be the Ensign Chekov to my Mister Sulu."

"Sorry, the what?"

"You know, from _Star Trek_?" he prompted. "Chekov's the guy who navigates, Sulu's the guy who flies the ship?"

Unfortunately, she knew just as little about _Star Trek_ as German chocolate cake or Potemkin. "I know what it is, but I've never actually watched it."

"Not even once?"

"Sorry. Science fiction's not really my thing. I'm more of a _General Hospital_ girl."

He heaved a fake-mournful sigh. "See, it's moments like this that make me wonder if we have a future together."

She rolled her eyes at him. "You know how to get onto Wisconsin from here?"

"I think so, yeah."

"You _think_ so?" That wasn't what she wanted to hear, not when she was putting her life and her (very expensive) car in his hands. "William, I have to ask, how much driving have you done in DC?"

"Don't have a car, so not a lot." He waved at the clock. "It's only one o'clock on a Sunday. How bad can it be?"

"You wouldn't say that if you'd ever spent much time on the Beltway. It's a circus even at ten at night."

"Can't be any worse than Jerusalem. Bet the Beltway's a breeze compared to rush hour traffic around the Old City."

"Maybe I should drive us," she said.

His lips curled into a grin. "This is really bothering you, isn't it?"

"I don't like not being in control."

"Didn't seem to be a problem for you this morning."

It hadn't been—far from it, in fact. She was eager to try the position again, but for the sake of her knees, maybe with the addition of a second cushion. "That was different," she said.

"Sure it was." He smiled again, this time more kindly, and gave her thigh a comforting pat. "Relax. I promise I won't damage your car."

"That's what the last guy said."

"What last guy?"

"John."

"The Australian?"

"Yes."

"From Australia? Where they drive on the other side of the road?"

"He didn't crash my car because he was Australian. He crashed my car because he was a shitty driver."

"In _my_ experience"—he held up a finger—"which I'll admit is limited to a few people, one pretty much leads to the other."

"I thought you said you _liked_ Australians?"

"I do. The guys I knew were a solid bunch. But they were all shitty drivers as well. Seemed to think using your turn signal was a sign of psychological weakness." As if making a point, he pushed his on.

"So, you're telling me you're not a shitty driver?" she said.

"I'm telling you, I've driven in thirteen different countries on both sides of the road and never caused so much as a scratch, so no, I'm not a shitty driver." He fastened his belt, adjusted the mirror, stepped on the brake and slipped the car into drive. "You happy now? Are we good to go?"

"As good as I'll ever be." Sighing, she pointed straight ahead. "When you pull out, go right at the end of the street."

Twenty-five minutes later, they were still in one piece, the car was safely (and perfectly) parked in a strip mall off Connecticut at Van Ness, and the two of them were perusing the shelves of a high-end wine and liquor boutique, looking for a suitable gift.

William picked up a bottle of red.

"Put that back," she ordered. "I am _not_ buying Australian Shiraz."

He stuck the offending item back on the shelf. "Do we want a red or a white?"

"If it was for the party itself, I'd say a rosé or a white. Something light and refreshing to go with the weather. But it's a gift for our hosts, and they might not open it for a few months, so it could just as easily be a red."

"So, that narrows it down to pretty much the whole store. Awesome."

"Not the _whole_ store," she corrected. She wrinkled her nose. "No Australian Shiraz, no Merlot and no Californian Chardonnay either."

"ABC, right?"

"Sorry?"

"ABC," he repeated. "Anything But Chardonnay."

"Thought you didn't know anything about wine?"

"I know enough not to drink Chardonnay."

She patted him on the arm. "Then, there's hope for you yet."

Behind them, somebody cleared their throat.

"Well, well, well," an alarmingly familiar voice drawled. "Is it that great minds think alike, or that fools seldom differ?"

Jesus. Only Ian van Wettering could think calling a woman a fool was a good way to open a conversation.

She took a moment to fix her smile before she turned to greet him. "Ian, what a surprise," she said. Not a pleasant one, though. The only pleasant thing about this man was his absence.

He was wearing a similar outfit to William, but where her date carried the business casual look with ease, on Ian, it somehow looked shoddy and unappealing. The greased back hair didn't help. She wasn't a fan of the Gordon Gecko style—she much preferred William's neat, clean, no-product approach.

Her co-worker's eyes went first to her chest, then to her legs, before flitting over to quickly evaluate William, reminding her that introductions were in order. At least the process would be brief, since Ian didn't appear to have a date with him. There was a chance he'd left one out in the car, but knowing how Ian loved to show off, that seemed highly unlikely. If he left her in the car, he wouldn't be able to demonstrate to her what a world-class sommelier he was.

Still wearing a rigid smile, she waved from one man to the other. "William, this is Ian van Wettering, one of the other associate lawyers from my firm. Ian, this is my boyfriend, William Cooper."

Boyfriend.

There. She'd said it. She'd provided her foe with living, breathing, flesh-and-blood proof she wasn't a delusional liar.

And after last night, surely it wasn't just a lie to put Ian in his place and keep his unwanted attentions at bay? Surely, after a dinner out and a night and morning of passionate sex, she and William were now _actually_ dating?

Ian gave William one of his smarmiest smiles. "Nice to meet you, William," he said, holding out a hand. "Shelly's told me all about you." He smirked and winked. "Don't worry. It's all been pretty harmless so far. None of the really sordid stuff yet."

For at least the third time that week, Michelle suppressed the urge to punch her co-worker in the teeth. As if she would ever share anything about her sex life with Ian. Maybe he was testing William—finding out if the ex-Marine was willing to be 'one of the boys', to have a few beers, let his guard down, and tell him and the other guys at the party what she liked to do in bed. That was Ian's style all right—what he couldn't hope to ever learn for himself, he would wangle out of other people.

There was only one problem with that plan. William might be an ex-Marine, but from what she'd seen of him so far, he certainly wasn't 'one of the boys'.

Smiling politely, William took and shook the hand. "Nice to meet you, too, Liam," he said.

"That's _Ian_ ," her co-worker corrected, his smirk slipping into a frown.

William's eyes went hammily wide. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry." His hands moved around his head. "It's my hearing. Hasn't been the same since that live fire training exercise in ninety-six. Got a bit too close to a shoulder-mounted RPG for comfort."

Michelle bit her lower lip so hard she almost drew blood.

Ian narrowed his eyes. "Right, yeah. Shelly mentioned you were in the Marines."

"For almost seven years."

"Must've been fun."

William shrugged. "Some of it was, some of it wasn't." He gestured at Ian. "How about you? You ever serve?"

Ian shook his head. "Some of us just aren't made to take orders."

"No shame in that," William said, using a tone that somehow implied there was. "We all have to find our own way to contribute, right?"

Ian nodded in wary agreement. "Right."

Michelle cleared her throat. "So, I guess you're here to buy the Gellers a gift?" She waved at the shelves full of bottles. "Just curious, have you settled on a red or a white?" She didn't care one way or the other—his choice wouldn't alter her own—but she didn't want William to step on Ian too much before they'd even arrived at the party. There would be plenty of time (and no doubt plenty of reasons) to step on the asshole later.

"Neither," was Ian's response.

"Oh?"

Ian sighed and shook his head. "See, this is why I'm not convinced when Martha says you're the best researcher in the whole office."

She felt William bristle. And rightly so. She _was_ the best researcher in the whole office. And Jesus, would it _kill_ Martha to occasionally tell her things like that to her face instead of leaving her to hear them from a co-worker?

"Because if you _were_ "—Ian paused, brows raised, making it clear what he thought of the claim—"you'd know you were wasting your time on wine, cus David Geller's a Single Malt man." He pointed to the next section over. "You wanna make a really good impression, you should forget the wine, take a look at something from Islay or Speyside instead."

"Michelle actually mentioned that on the way here," William said.

"So, why the _hell_ are you looking at wine?"

"Because this is a party at somebody's private residence," William explained. "Which means, according to standard social etiquette, it's Mister Geller's _wife_ who's the host. _He_ might be a Single Malt man, but the gift we're buying should be for her, and the last time Michelle checked, _she_ prefers wine." Smiling, he turned her way. "Isn't that right, babe?"

Babe.

Oh, God.

Her ovaries were about to burst.

Michelle nodded. "That's right. Amanda likes whites, the cleaner and drier, the better. She's particularly fond of Silex tones, so something from the left bank of the eastern end of the Loire is probably the best way to go."

William turned back to Ian. "So, forgive me, but it sounds to me like Michelle _is_ the best researcher in the whole office," he oh-so calmly said.

Her trust issues evaporated.

Someone—not Ian—was getting a _really_ good blow job tonight.

Ian rolled his eyes. "I'm still gonna go with a Single Malt. Amanda Geller might be the host, but David's the one who makes the partner promotion decisions."

That was a move too far for Michelle. "The only thing that'll help either of us make partner is how much business we bring into the firm," she curtly pointed out. She had no idea how much money Ian had earned for Wilson, Cruz and Geller over the last six to twelve months, but given how light his current caseload was, and how much time he spent hanging over the walls of various (female) co-workers' desks, the answer was probably 'not much'. The only way he would make partner in the next couple of years was by either blackmailing or bribing the owners. Today, the latter seemed to be his solution of choice. "But if you think buying an expensive bottle of Single Malt for Mister Geller will help your chances, knock yourself out."

Ian's answer was a snide smile. "I'm gonna go find my gift," he said, waving at the hard liquor section. "You buy your wine. I guess I'll see you up at the house." He glared at William and strode away.

Once he was gone, William blew out a breath. "Jesus, he's a real piece of work."

"Now you understand why I did what I did?" she said. "Why I told him you and I were dating?"

"Just surprised the worst you've done is tell him a couple of little white lies. How the _hell_ do you deal with him on a daily basis and not constantly want to punch him to death?"

She shrugged. "I do yoga three a few times a week, and he spends a lot of time at the other end of the floor. When it's _really_ bad, I go into an empty conference room and scream into a special pillow I keep in my drawer."

"And we both know how good you are at that."

She smacked him on the arm. "Don't be crude."

He slipped his arm around her waist. "But I make you scream into a pillow in a good way, right?" he murmured, pulling her in for a lingering kiss.

"The best." She held the kiss for a few seconds then gently pushed him away. "But keep that for later. We still have a party to go to."

Sighing, he turned back to the wine. "What's it gonna be, then? Red, rosé or white?"

"White," she decided, turning to the section behind her to grab a bottle of high-end Sancerre she'd had her eye on. "This one should do the trick."

He flicked the plastic tag on the shelf. "For thirty-three bucks, it better do the whole show."

"Don't worry. I'm buying."

"Would offer to pay for half, but then I remember he's your boss, not mine."

"You don't have a boss." Unless his course tutor counted.

"Exactly."

She dug her purse out of her bag. "Let me go pay and have this wrapped. Meet you back out at the car?"

He flipped a salute. "Roger. See you outside."

As William headed out the door, she carried the bottle up to the counter, smiling at the cashier. "Hi there, could I have this gift-wrapped, please? Just something pretty, it's not for a specific occasion." she said.

"Sure thing," the young woman said, taking the bottle to the wrapping counter behind her. "Won't take a minute."

Someone fell in beside her.

Jesus. Not Ian again.

He placed a heavy cardboard tube on the counter. She glanced at the label—a ten-year-old Tomatin. She wasn't an expert by any means—Dan was the family's Single Malt guy—but she knew that wasn't a premium brand. She would have gone for at least a twelve-year-old herself, maybe with a fancy cask finish.

"William seems like a decent guy," he said.

That was a suspiciously pleasant admission for Ian.

"He is."

"Just, uh, just watch out for his temper, okay?"

Alarm flared in her veins. "What temper?"

Ian sighed. "He's an ex-Marine, right?"

"Yeah? So?"

"So, I've read they have a lot of issues. All those years of holding things in, of being bullied and trained until they drop, and having to do exactly what they're told even when they don't wanna do it, apparently it leaves a whole bunch of emotional problems." He leaned in close as if revealing a secret. "Domestic abuse and assault conviction rates for ex-military people are much higher than for civilians."

"He's not going to abuse or assault me."

"You sure? Cus you've only been with him for a couple of months."

Except, it was actually a couple of days. "I trust him," she said.

"Have you seen him when he's really drunk?"

"No."

"Or really stressed?"

"No."

"Which means you don't know what he's capable of," Ian said, brows furrowed in concern. "He could be the type of guy who buys you a dozen roses today and beats you to a pulp tomorrow."

For the briefest of moments, she was actually worried. Ian was right—except in the bedroom (and when eating desserts) she didn't know what William was capable of, if he turned violent when he was drunk, or how he reacted in moments of stress.

She almost groaned out loud as she realized what her co-worker was doing. Ian wasn't concerned—this was just another one of his shitty, psychological tricks. He couldn't have something he really wanted—the something in question being her—so he was trying to find a way to spoil it for the person who could.

What Ian couldn't (or wouldn't) understand was that he would _never_ have her, not in a million years, not even if William Cooper had never been born.

And for all that she hadn't known William for long, for reasons she couldn't quite explain, she felt completely safe in his presence. Somehow, she knew he would never turn his fists or temper on her.

"Ian, it's sweet that you're worried, but I trust William completely. There's nothing for you to worry about."

He made a dubious face. "If you say so."

The cashier returned with her plastic and ribbon-wrapped bottle. The woman rang up the bill. "That'll be forty-eighty-five altogether. How would you like to pay?" she asked.

Michelle handed over her card. Once the transaction was done, she grabbed the bottle, took her receipt and gave her co-worker a frosty smile. "I _do_ say so, actually. So, please, don't ever talk to me about this again." Warning delivered, she strode away.

William was waiting for her outside, casually leaning against the car. Her annoyance must have showed on her face. As she approached, he frowned and said, "Something wrong?"

"Just Ian," she said, waving the question away. "Trying to be a total asshole again."

He snorted. "Don't think there's a lot of trying involved." He opened her door, waved her in, and once she was seated, slammed it shut behind her and strode around to the driver's side to let himself in. "What'd he do now?" he asked as he took his own seat.

Should she tell William what Ian had said? It didn't seem right, to share such a scurrilous charge, but at the same time, she wanted to see how he would react. If he took it well, she knew her trust in him wasn't misplaced. If he took it badly, maybe Ian might have a point.

"Ian's worried"—she made quote marks with her fingers—"that you might have a violent streak."

William's brows shot up. "A _violent_ streak?"

"Because you used to be a Marine."

"So, what, he thinks I'm gonna abuse or assault you?"

She nodded. "He claims ex-military guys are more prone to violence than regular people." She held up refusing hands, making it clear the 'claim' wasn't hers. "I have no idea if that's true. And even if it is, it's not like he's really concerned about me. He's just annoyed because I'm here with you instead of him, so he's causing trouble for us however he can."

"I would restate my offer to kill him, but that might be making his point."

"That's not helping."

"Sorry." Sighing, he reached out to cup her face with his hand and stroked his thumb along her cheek. Looking her right in the eye, he said, "I promise, no matter how long we're together, whether we just have sex every night for a month, or we end up telling this story at our fiftieth anniversary party, I will never, _ever_ lay a finger on you in anger." He pulled her close to bring her lips to his. "That's not the type of man my grandparents and mother raised me to be. God knows I've got all kinds of flaws, but a violent temper isn't one of them. You got that?"

She nodded.

"Good." His eyes refocused behind her, his attention caught by something outside. "Fuck," he muttered, pulling away.

She turned to see what the problem was. This time her groan was out loud.

Ian had left the store, but instead of heading to his own ride, he was walking towards her car. As he drew close, he gestured for her to wind down the window. Somewhat reluctantly, she complied.

"Pretty nice engine in this baby," Ian said, slapping a hand on the roof. "Two point four litres, right?"

"Two point _eight_ ," she corrected. Not that she cared. She'd asked for this model because it had leather seats, a sunroof and a twelve-CD changer, not because of its engine size or horsepower rating.

Ian smirked. "Think it can beat my baby away from the lights?" he asked, gesturing at his bright yellow Camaro.

"I don't know, and to be honest, I don't really care."

Ian ducked to look at William instead. "How about it, Billy? You wanna race me up to the house?"

"Thanks, but I'll pass."

She breathed a silent sigh of relief. _Definitely_ not 'one of the boys'.

"C'mon, man, where's your sense of adventure?"

"Used it all up when I was in the Corps." William waved at the main road next to the mall. "And Connecticut's not exactly a good place for a race. Too many junctions and pedestrian crossings."

Ian shrugged. "Then we'll try somewhere else."

"Nah, I'm good."

"Don't say I didn't offer."

She read the look on William's face as 'why the hell would I ever say _that_?'

What he actually said was, "I'm fine, Euan, thanks."

Ian frowned, opened his mouth, closed it again, patted the roof, turned on his heel and headed back to his car. She saw her guess about a date had been right—there was nobody in his passenger seat.

Michelle giggled as she pressed the window-up button. "Please tell me you're doing that deliberately."

"Doing what deliberately?"

"Calling him by the wrong name."

William gave her the blandest of smiles. "I couldn't possibly comment."

"It's not exactly mature."

"Do you like being called Shelly?"

"Course not. Makes me sound like the whacky half of a seventies TV comedy duo."

"Does Ian know that?"

"Absolutely. Must tell him three or four times a week."

"Which means he's doing it to annoy you. So, every time he calls you Shelly, or every time he calls me _Billy_ "—he huffed and wrinkled his nose—"I'll call him something other than Ian. Liam, Euan, Ivan, Ryan." He shrugged. "Whatever. Eventually, he'll get the message."

"I've already told you, you're a terrible person, right?"

"Twice." He leaned over to kiss her again. "But not so terrible that you're not gonna let me do all kinds of naughty things to you later?"

She slipped a hand around his jaw to pull his ear to her lips. "Was actually thinking I might be the one doing naughty things to you," she murmured.

He tensed. "Really? How naughty are we talking here?"

"The kind of naughty where I find something to do with my mouth?"

He groaned and fisted his hand in the skirt of her dress. "Do we _have_ to go to this party?" he asked.

"Yes. So behave."

"Shouldn't tell me things like that if you want me to behave." The hand moved under the skirt to edge towards her panties. Her innards started to scream.

Using every ounce of willpower she had, she grabbed his hand around the wrist, pulled it out from under her skirt and set it firmly back in his lap. "Stand down, Marine."

Sighing, he pulled away. "How long do we have to stay?"

"At least two hours. Possibly three."

"So, we'll be back at your place four hours from now." He nodded, deciding. "I can do that."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure. Might be thinking about the naughty stuff for the rest of the day, but that's my problem, not yours."

"Just don't think about it so much you end up putting on a good show," she warned, eyes flicking to his groin.

"Believe it or not, I _do_ know how to control myself."

"You didn't control yourself last night."

He snorted. "Says the kettle to the pot. Least I didn't pull your hair so hard I almost scalped you."

In hindsight, yes, she'd probably tugged his hair quite hard. It wasn't _her_ fault he was so good with his mouth…

"Let's get to this party before either of us says or does something we end up regretting," she said.

"Good idea." He fastened his belt, cranked the engine, carefully reversed out of the space and made his way back onto the road, heading north towards Van Ness.

Michelle approached the elegant wood and glass door.

Time to put on her party face, but first, a final hair and outfit review.

She smoothed down the skirt of her dress, trying to get eliminate the creases William had made with his fist, then stepped back, twirling, holding her arms out wide. "Before we go in, how do I look?" she asked.

William gave her a thorough once over. "Perfect," he said.

"You don't think the dress is too revealing?" she asked, glancing down at her chest. It was probably her angle of view, but she felt as if she had slightly too much cleavage on show for a family-friendly work event.

His eyes took on a mischievous glint. "A little bit, but I'm not complaining."

"You're not helping."

"What makes you think I was trying to help?"

She smacked him in the gut with her purse. "Didn't your Oma Johanna ever tell you, if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all?"

He scrunched his face. "That _was_ something nice."

"But not the kind of 'nice' I meant."

Sighing, he set his hands on her waist. "No, your dress isn't too revealing," he said, leaning in to give her the mildest and chastest of kisses. "It makes your breasts look amazing, but you're not showing too much of 'em, I promise." He moved his mouth to her ear. "But just so you know, you'll be showing me a lot more of 'em later."

She laid a restraining hand on his chest. "Easy, Marine. Let's focus on the mission at hand. There'll be plenty of time to take liberty later."

He nipped at her ear. "I'm gonna take plenty of liberties, trust me."

"You forgetting we're literally on the doorstep of a party?" she said, pointing her thumb at the mansion behind her.

"Course not."

"Then _behave_."

Sighing, he moved away. "Can't help it if just looking at you gives me wicked and sinful thoughts."

"Can you have wicked and sinful thoughts and talk to a houseful of lawyers at the same time?"

"I'm Catholic. Course I can."

"Then, let's do this."

He grabbed her hand as she reached for the bell. "One final thing."

"What?"

"If we get separated, and end up in two different groups of people, and you look over to check on me, and I've got this satisfied look on my face, it's not because I'm really enjoying myself."

"Then what?'

He kissed her again, this time less chastely. In a playful murmur, he added, "It's because I'm thinking of all the ways I'm gonna do you over my coffee table later."

"Okay, are you _always_ like this?" she asked.

Not that she didn't feel the same way—just imagining what they were going to do made some of her body parts quiver—but there was a time and a place for everything, and this was neither the time nor the place to be thinking about sexual positions.

"What, creatively fond of coffee tables?"

Huffing, she smacked him again. "Do you even know what the word 'behave' means?"

"More or less, yeah." He reached out to press the bell; it bing-bonged deep inside the house. "Don't worry," he told her. "I promise I'll be the perfect gentleman for the next three hours."

But what would happen when those three hours were up? Would his horny caveman mode kick in? Would _hers_? If he tried to talk her into a sexual encounter in the trees at the end of the Geller's garden, would she have the resolve to say no? Would she end up being terminated with cause for being caught _in flagrante delicto_ by not one but all three of her bosses?

Something in the door clunked. A few seconds later, the door swung all the way open, revealing an attractive young man clad in the standard white shirt, black pants, black vest and black tie of a hired hospitality team. He smiled and waved them into the house. "Good afternoon," he said. "Welcome to the Geller residence. Can I put anything in the cloakroom for you?"

Michelle smiled as she shook her head. "We're both good, thanks."

"And may I ask, have you visited with the Gellers before?"

"I have, yes."

The young man smiled again and guided them to a hall on the left. "You'll know the way to the Great Room, then. You'll find some of the other guests in there, as well as some appetisers, and a range of soft and alcoholic drinks. If there's anything else you need, a hostess will be on hand to assist." A final smile and a nod of the head. "Enjoy your visit."

"Thank you, we will."

Taking his hand, she led William along a short, plain, unadorned hall into a massive, airy, two-storey space.

William's mouth fell slightly open as he looked up and around, taking in the wall of west-facing French doors, the transom windows at the upper level that bathed the room in natural light, the ornate, rectangular tray ceiling with two candle-style chandeliers, the floor-to-ceiling Carmel limestone fireplace surround, the Macassar ebony hardwood floor, the exquisite artwork adorning the walls and the tasteful, high-end furnishings in a soothing palette of beige and white. It wasn't her style (the white would be a bitch to keep clean), but she couldn't deny the placed look amazing—classic DC refinement with a hint of Martha's Vineyard beach vibe.

"Jesus," William murmured. "The guy wasn't kidding when he called it a Great Room, was he?"

"You think this is impressive, you should see the movie theater downstairs."

"They have a _movie theater_?"

She nodded. "Only seats about twelve people, but yeah. They even have a proper popcorn machine."

He let out a wistful sigh. "Must be nice to be this rich."

"Must be, yeah."

This probably wasn't the time to tell him her own parents' house was even larger and grander than this. Although, thanks to her mother's misplaced fondness for chintz, Hummels and Tiffany lamps, not quite as tastefully decorated.

"Can see why people go into law, if they end up living like this," he said.

"This didn't come from David being a lawyer," she warned. "I mean, the firm's successful, don't get me wrong, and he's one of the three original owners, so he's not poor by any means, but this is mostly Amanda's money."

"And how'd she earn it?"

"By being her stinking rich father's only child?"

William chuckled. "Easier to marry it than to make it, right?"

She filed that comment away for later.

A short, plump, middle-aged woman wearing a pair of nude-coloured heels with a sleeveless, sea-green, princess-line dress broke away from a huddle of people and bustled towards them, smiling, holding out welcoming arms. "Michelle, my dear, how _lovely_ to see you again," she said, moving in to claim a quick hug.

A hug Michelle was happy to both give and receive. "Lovely to see you again, too," she told Amanda Geller. "You look well. And that's a _beautiful_ dress." Fortunately, not a little, white lie. "The colour looks fantastic on you. Really shows off your tan."

Amanda beamed. "Thank you, and don't you look lovely yourself?" She stood back to look Michelle over. " _Very_ pretty." She turned her attention to William. "And speaking of pretty, you must be William," she added, holding out a perfectly manicured, ring-covered hand. "I'm Amanda Geller. It's very nice to meet you."

Michelle bit down on a giggle. She'd forgotten how candid Amanda could be.

"Yes, ma'am, that's me," William said, taking and shaking the hand. "It's very nice to meet you, too."

Amanda cocked a brow at her. "Did I hear him right, or did he just call me ' _ma'am'_?" she whispered.

"He's a little bit proper that way."

Michelle didn't add—but not so proper in others. Especially not with coffee tables, it seemed…

"Just means his mother raised him right." Amanda smiled at William again. "But please, call me Amanda. Or, if that's too casual for you, Mrs. Geller."

"Thank you for inviting us. You have a really beautiful home," William said, gesturing around the room, ticking off another box on his 'how to be a charming guest' list.

Amanda waved the compliment off. "Would love to take credit for it, but most of the décor was my designer's choice." She wrinkled her nose. "If I'd known then what I know now, I wouldn't have gone for so many light colours. Scotchgard's a wonderful thing, especially when you're as clumsy with a red wine glass as me, but even it can only do so much."

"Must be great to have so much space," William added. "I like my apartment, but it's the size of a shoebox. It literally takes me three seconds to walk from one end of it to the other."

"You say that, but you might change your mind once you realize how many bathrooms you'd have to clean." One at a time, Amanda held up two spread-fingered hands. "Five full and five two-piece. Takes Corinna most of a day."

"I actually don't mind cleaning bathrooms. It's making beds I hate."

Amanda blinked. "You know how to clean a bathroom?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And how to make a bed?"

"So well, you could bounce a quarter on it."

"Keep him," Amanda told her, patting William on the arm. "I don't care how poor he is, or what he does for a living. If he can clean a bathroom and make a bed, he's worth his weight in gold."

"He's got some decent potential, yeah."

Especially in the sexual positions department—they would probably cover another two by the end of the day…

William smiled and rolled his eyes, then raised his brows very slightly and dropped his gaze to the gift in her hand.

"Oh, and this is for you," Michelle added, presenting the bottle to their host. "Just a little something to say 'thank you' for hosting the party today."

Amanda held the gift at arm's length, squinting at the plain black and white label just visible through the translucent blue wrapping, then gasped and clutched the wine to her chest. "Le Chêne Marchand," she whispered. "How did you know?"

Michelle shrugged. "Call it an educated guess."

And absolutely _not_ paying extremely close attention to every word David Geller said.

"Do you think it would be rude not to share this one with our guests?" Amanda asked.

"I bought it for you, so I'd be absolutely fine if you didn't."

Amanda grinned. "Good girl. I've always liked you." She turned to survey the room. "Okay, now, let's see." She pointed to the far corner. "There's drinks over at the bar, wine, beer, water and pop." She looked to William. "The server can help if you want something stronger."

"Beer's fine with me, ma'am, thank you."

"Didn't I tell you not to do that?" Amanda complained, playfully swatting him on the arm. She gestured at the French doors. "David's out on the patio keeping an eye on the food, and by keeping an eye on, I mean slowly eating his way through it, of course. Some people are in here, most are outside, the kids are all down on the lawn with the toys and the bouncy castle." She waved a warning finger at William. "And before you ask, no, the adults are _not_ allowed to go on it."

William huffed and allowed his shoulders to slump, pretending to be disappointed.

"We _did_ try, dear, but the rental company told us adult use would invalidate the liability insurance."

"And the last thing any of us wants is an uninsured accident in a house full of lawyers," William quipped.

Amanda chuckled. "Now, _that's_ the spirit."

"Are Martha and Gordon here yet?" Michelle asked, thinking her boss should be her next 'introducing the boyfriend' stop.

"They were on the terrace the last I saw them. Martha asked for you when they arrived, I told her you weren't here yet."

Michelle hoped it was just a social enquiry, and not something to do with work. "I'll check in with her as soon as I can."

"I think she'd like that, yes." Amanda made a shooing motion. "Now, go. Have a drink, eat some food, relax and enjoy yourselves. There's plenty of seats, inside and out, and if you need anything, just ask David or one of the servers." She wielded the bottle of wine. "I'll take this down to the cellar, then I need to go check on the kitchen, see what state the quiches and mini-cheesecakes are in." She turned to William. "Was lovely to meet you, William. I'll try to catch up with both of you later." With a parting smile, she bustled away.

"She seems nice," William said once Amanda was gone.

"Very."

"Does she work?"

"Only in the rich people way. Charities, fundraisers, that kind of thing." The same way her own mother earned her 'living'.

"Not really 'work', though, is it? I mean, she won't be putting in an eight-to-five week."

"Says the man who won't get out of bed before nine o'clock on a Monday."

"I worked twelve hour days and six day weeks for almost seven years. While I'm still in school, you bet your _ass_ I won't."

"I suppose I can let you have that."

He clapped his hands together. "So, what's the plan of attack? Inside? Outside? A quick reconnaissance tour of the garden?"

"Let's go grab us something to drink," she said, pointing to the bar, "then we'll head outside, check who's here, and who I can introduce you to. Once we've covered all the main targets, we'll have some food, kick back and relax." Or, as much as they could, given this was a work event.

He checked his watch. "Minimum of two hours, right?"

"Jesus, is it _that_ painful for you?"

"Not painful at all." He bit his lip. "Just thinking about what's waiting after."

"You have a one-track mind."

"Like you're any better." He leaned in, putting his mouth to her ear. "I remember what you told me last night, when you ran back to find me after dinner. And some of the things you said later on in the heat of the moment. You're not fooling me. I know _exactly_ how hot your insides are running."

Jesus. One night of sex, and he could already read her. She was totally fucked, in more ways than one.

But she couldn't think about that right now.

"William?" she said.

"What?"

"I know you're teasing, but can we _please_ just keep a lid on the sex stuff for now?" she pleaded. "I need for today to go well. If I mess this up, if _you_ mess this up, it could honestly wreck my career."

In a flash, the sexual bravado vanished, replaced with remorse and concern. "I'm sorry," he said. "I _was_ teasing, but I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable."

She took his hand in hers. "It's okay. I know you didn't."

"It's just"—he glanced over both shoulders, checking nobody was standing too close—"I, uh, I think I like you. Really, _really_ like you."

"I know you do." She squeezed his hand, wishing they were somewhere private so she could hug and kiss him instead. "If it's any consolation, I think I really, _really_ like you as well."

The look he gave her—a combination of delight, hope, fear and relief—was like no look she'd ever seen.

She waved at the bar. "But we can talk more about that later. Let's go find you a drink." She was driving them home, so she would stick to soda and lime.

"Actually, why don't we go find _you_ a drink?" he countered.

"I can't drink. I'm driving us home."

"If you can handle the stress, I'll drive us instead. Then, you can have a nice glass of wine."

"You sure? Cus you having a drink today was part of this deal."

He nodded. "I'm sure. Won't kill me to stick to soda or water instead."

"I won't say no."

"Then, let's go see what they've got."

They each grabbed a drink at the bar—a wine for her and a low-alcohol beer for him.

She didn't know anyone in the Great Room; they were probably all Rafael's people. "Let's head outside," she said, strolling towards the nearest set of French doors.

Out on the massive, wraparound terrace, she paused to check the lay of the land. There were maybe twenty people up here, and another thirty down on the lawn. She summoned William to her side. "Okay, let's run through a quick Who's Who of some of the other guests," she said. "You see the guy at the barbecue, the short, stocky one with the glasses, wearing the yellow and blue checked shirt?"

William's eyes followed her prompts. "Uh huh?"

"That's David Geller. One of the company's original owners. Amanda's husband, so this is house." And, just as Amanda had predicted, he was working his way through a heaped plate of food. He loved his chow, almost as much as he loved being one of DC's best family lawyers. He was also deep in conversation with three other people, only one of whom she knew, so she would maybe leave saying 'hello' until later.

William nodded. "David Geller, VIP, check."

"But he's busy right now, so we'll talk to him later." She stifled a groan as she spotted another, less welcoming group. "You see the five people next to the near set of stairs, three guys, two girls, one of the girls is wearing red, the guys all look like they shop at Turnbull & Asser?"

"What's Turnbull & Asser?"

She waved him off, making a mental note to tackle that later. "Doesn't matter, but you see who I mean?"

"I think so, yeah."

"Those three guys are all Ian's friends." Or, the closest thing he had to friends. Colleagues. Associates. Lackeys. Whatever Ian wanted to call them. "The two with dates are Caleb and Josh. They're mostly okay, except when Ian's around, he tends to bring their worst tendencies out. The guy on his own is Aaron. _Total_ asshole. Almost as bad as Ian. Doesn't like me, so won't like you either. Best to avoid at all costs."

"Why doesn't he like you?" William asked.

"Because I'm better at my job than him, and I won't sleep with him, which means I must be a frigid bitch?"

He rolled his eyes. "Do _any_ of the men you work with know how to relate to women?"

"Actually, most of them do. But you know how it is. There's a few bad apples in every batch."

"So, Aaron, enemy, check."

As if he'd heard his name being taken in vain, Aaron's attention turned their way. He looked her over, looked William over, leaned in to murmur something to Josh then turned to stand with his back to them. From the set of his shoulders, she could tell he was pissed.

She wanted to punch the air with her fist. Two minor skirmishes won, only the final Big Boss battle to go…

"Guess he's not in the mood to even say 'hello' to us, huh?" William said.

"He helped Ian spread the rumour I was making our relationship up. He's pissed cus I've just proven him wrong in front of everyone we work with." Which meant it would be Aaron, not her, who would face the teasing comments on Monday. "And it's not like you're missing much. The only thing he knows anything about is golf."

"And being a lawyer as well, I assume."

She snorted. "I'm not even sure he knows about that."

"Is he a trademark lawyer as well?"

"He's a personal injury lawyer, works in Rafael's group."

"So, an ambulance chaser, huh?"

"Think he strolls instead of chasing, but yeah."

She turned to see who was down on the lawn. Mostly people from her own group, and mostly people she knew and liked. One person in particular stood out. "Okay, down on the lawn, the tall African-American woman wearing the beautiful blue and white dress and the five inch Jimmy Choos?"

"Uh huh?"

"That's Lena. She started at the firm the same day as me, also works for Martha, sits at the next desk over, she's one of my two closest friends." She leaned in even closer to murmur, "And she's the only person here who knows we actually only met last week."

"What else does she know?"

"Some basic stuff about you, and that I was taking you out for dinner last night." But not that she'd stayed at William's place after—she would fill Lena in on their marathon sexual escapades later.

"So, if I need someone safe, and you're not around, she's where I should go?" he asked.

Grinning, she patted his arm. "She'll take very good care of you, I promise."

"You weren't kidding when you said the company planned this as a family thing," William said, gesturing to the horde of kids gathered at the far end of the lawn.

"There's always a ton of kids whenever it's at the Geller house. And Amanda always hires a bunch of people to watch them," she added, pointing to the four women in casual uniforms she could only assume were the professional babysitters. "She knows the parents want to be able to chill out and relax."

"You know what _I_ want?"

She tensed, expecting sexual innuendo again. "What's that?"

"To go on that goddamn bouncy castle," William said, gesturing at the massive, swaying inflatable structure tethered to the ground at the end of the lawn, packed full of screaming, bouncing, giggling kids. As they watched, one of the youngsters bounced out the front, hit the grass and started to cry. A well-dressed woman standing nearby handed her wine glass to her companion and rushed over to pick the boy up.

"Let's hope mommy's not a personal injury lawyer," William quipped.

"That's Sarah, she's a criminal lawyer, specializes in personal crimes, works in Rafael's group." Michelle checked behind her, then leaned in close. "You ever decide you want to kill Ian, but you don't do it well enough not to get caught, she's who you want on your team." Assuming he could pay Sarah's enormous fees. "Lovely person, but you put her in court, she's like a Doberman crossed with a snake oil salesman. Pretty sure she could convince a jury to sell their own grandmothers to her. She's incredible."

William shook his head. "Good to know, but wouldn't need her."

"Why's that?"

"Cus I wouldn't be dumb enough to get caught." He tapped his thumb on his chest. "When _I_ do something, I do it properly, and I do it well."

Given how many orgasms she'd had in the last twenty-four hours, she wasn't sure she could argue with him…

She went back to her scanning. She couldn't see Rafael and his wife, but she could see Martha and her husband—probably where her introductions should start. William was still casting covetous eyes at the castle; she tugged his sleeve to grab his attention. "Okay, see the woman over by the bar at the end of the terrace? The one with the reddish brown hair cut in a shoulder-length bob?"

"Beige dress, white jacket?"

She nodded. "That's Martha, my boss. The tall guy in the blue shirt beside her is Gordon, her husband."

"He's the one who was in the Marines?"

"That's right."

"So, are we starting with them?"

"I think so, yes." Martha and Gordon were on their own, so there was minimal risk of interrupting. Martha hated to be interrupted, almost as much as she hated to be kept waiting.

"You sure you want to deal with them first? You don't want to introduce me to Lena instead?"

She did, but sometimes, what she wanted to do and what she needed to do were two different things. And the one thing she really needed to do today was mend fences with her boss. "I'd rather get this part over and done with."

He rolled his eyes. "You'd think you were going to your own execution. Relax."

"You wouldn't tell me to relax if you'd ever worked for Martha. I've seen her make educated grown men cry."

"Well, the sooner we start, the sooner we'll finish." He waved to the Wilsons. "Lead the way, I'm on your six."

It was only when she was halfway across the terrace that she realized what 'on your six' meant. They weren't on a Marine Corps patrol—there were no threats or dangers to shield her from here.

Her boyfriend was just checking her ass…


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More mingling at the party brings a surprise for Michelle, and an interesting offer for William.

Three hours later, she'd had two plates of food and two glasses of wine, William had won a bet with some kids by eating fourteen mini-meringues in a row, and they'd said at least 'hi' to most of the guests, going so far as to have another (pointless) conversation with Ian.

True to form, Ian had tried to provoke her again, this time by claiming women didn't have the reasoning skills to be really good lawyers, but the combination of Lena's acerbic replies and William's onomastics assaults had quickly put the asshole to rights. Ian had stormed off in a huff, no doubt annoyed by Lena running snarky circles around him, or by William referring to him as Ivan or Ryan, and they hadn't seen hide nor hair of him since. He was probably somewhere in the house, whining to Aaron, complaining about how unfair his life was. Or, maybe he'd left. Michelle didn't know, and quite frankly, she didn't much care.

All in all, it had been a good day—a success for the Gellers just as much as for her. The weather had held, the food and drink had been top notch, the kids had all behaved themselves, and except with Ian, William had been as charming and polite as he'd promised. Not only had he (predictably) bonded with Gordon Wilson over their time in Corps, he'd also hit it off with Rafael Cruz, because he'd spent a year in Peru, the country from which Rafael's parents had emigrated. Even Martha—normally so hard to impress—had taken quite a shine to him, talking to him at length about his course and laughing at most of his jokes.

By three o'clock, the score was clear—no points for Ian, all points for her.

She and William had separated a while ago, her to make a quick bathroom trip, William on the hunt for a snack. How he had any room for more food after eating fourteen mini-meringues in eight minutes, she honestly didn't know. He was a man of appetites, in more ways than one.

She leaned on the moss-covered top of the stone balustrade, scanning the sprawling garden below. It didn't take her long to find her date. He was over by the gazebo, deep in conversation with four other men, one of whom was Gordon Wilson. To her surprise, one of the other three was Josh. Was he less of an asshole than she'd assumed? She made a mental note to ask William what he thought of her co-worker later.

Based on the other men's rapt expressions, and the way William was moving his hands, she would bet he was telling them another hair-raising story from his time in the Corps. Perhaps the tale of how and when he'd been shot. She was tempted to join them; she still didn't know the full story herself.

Behind her, heels slowly clicked across stone. A few moments later, Lena appeared at her side, a half-full glass of wine in one hand, a half-eaten mini quiche in the other.

"Hey," Michelle said, smiling warmly at her best friend. "Feel like I've barely seen you today. Enjoying yourself?"

"As much as I can for a work event. Not like I can really let loose."

"Nothing stopping you if you want to."

Lena snorted. "Only the threat of unemployment."

"Sure it wouldn't be the worst thing the Gellers have seen. From what David's occasionally said, they've thrown some pretty riotous parties."

"It's not the Gellers I'm worried about," Lena sourly added. She paused to eat and wash down the rest of her quiche. "Last thing I want to do is to make a fool of myself in front of Martha."

Aah, the unmistakeable sound of someone who worked for the 'Wilson' third of the firm…

"You and me both, girl," Michelle said.

"She still on your case about what happened last week?"

"At work, a little bit, yeah. She's been totally fine with me today. But other than introducing William to Gordon, I haven't spoken to her that much."

"You keeping out of her way."

"Let's just say, I'm proactively minimizing our opportunities for one-to-one interaction."

Lena rolled her eyes. "You're such a bullshitter."

Grinning, Michelle glanced at her watch, surprised to see it was just after four. "Can't believe it's been three hours."

"You know what they say. Time flies when you're having fun."

Did today count as 'fun'? Michelle wasn't quite sure. It certainly hadn't been as painful as she'd expected. But fun or not, she was ready to leave—she wasn't sure she could be sociable for much longer. "We're probably gonna head out soon."

"Same," said Lena. "Got a pile of laundry the size of Mount Everest waiting for me. What about you?" she asked. "You and Mister Amazing down there have any plans for the rest of the day?"

She'd already brought Lena up to speed on what had happened the previous night. Was this a good time to mention their imminent plans for the coffee table?

"Not sure," Michelle said. "Might head back to William's place. Hang out on the couch. Have some wine. Maybe watch a movie."

"Watch a movie. Sure."

"What?"

"You know as well as I do that after what happened last night, the only thing you're gonna do tonight is each other," Lena said, replicating Kate's comment.

Michelle grinned again, but felt herself blush. "And what if it is?"

"Not saying it's wrong," Lena said. "Just that I'm _insanely_ jealous."

"What the hell are you jealous of?"

"Mike, honey, in case you hadn't noticed, that"—she stabbed a finger at William—"is one _seriously_ fine piece of man."

"He's pretty nice, yeah."

"Nice," Lena muttered, swirling her wine. "Guy almost has a bruise on his ass where he fell out of heaven, and she calls him _nice_."

"What the hell you do you want me to call him?"

Lena moved closer, flashing a mischievous grin. "I don't want you to call him anything," she murmured. "I want you to tell me how good he is in the sack."

What was that line William had used again, back at their second lunch meeting on Thursday? A thorough and attentive lover, with the stamina of a mountain lion. Amusing (and more or less accurate), but probably not the most appropriate comment to share. "Let's just say he's _extremely_ creative."

"He good with his hands?"

"Uh huh."

"And his mouth?"

Michelle grinned. "I did tell you he speaks three languages, right?"

"Twice." Lena sighed. "So, he's smart, charming, funny, polite, horrendously easy on the eyes _and_ he gives good head." She took another sip of her wine. "You tell me he's loaded as well, I'm gonna go throw myself in the river."

"He's not loaded."

"But he's been able to pay for the SFS. Don't the fees for their Bachelor's program run to about thirty a year?"

"No idea," she truthfully said. "But I doubt he's paying them out of pocket. He'll have student loans. Maybe a scholarship as well. Hell, the Marine Corps could be paying for everything under the GI Bill. I don't know. I haven't asked."

"Well, you know who to call if you decide you don't want to keep him."

"Sorry, don't think I'll be dropping him anytime soon." She flashed her brows. "At least, not until we've tried a few more positions."

"Any favourites so far?"

"Let's just say, it's amazing what you can do with some pillows and a coffee table."

Lena sniggered into her glass.

Behind them, somebody cleared their throat.

Lena's eyes went wide; Michelle's blood drained into her toes. They both knew _exactly_ who the somebody was—they heard her clear her throat like that at least two or three times a day. Jesus. Of all the people to overhear what she'd just said. Michelle wanted the terrace to open up and swallow her whole—compared to what she suspected was coming, death would be an attractive fate.

She turned to greet the new arrival. "Martha, how are you?" she said, wearing her most virtuous smile.

Martha returned her smile but quickly switched her attention to Lena. "Lena, my dear, I wonder if you would excuse Michelle and me for a moment? Gordon and I are about to leave, but I'd like to have a quick word with her in private first."

"Of course, no problem," Lena said. She held up her now empty glass. "I'm gonna go see if there's any Vouvray left." She headed towards the house, turning briefly once she'd moved behind Martha to flash a small, supportive smile.

Once her friend was gone, Michelle said, "I'm not sure what you just heard of our conversation. I know some of it might have sounded quite vulgar. I hope you weren't offended."

Martha shook her head. "I'm actually very hard to offend," she said, coming to the balustrade to look out over the garden. "Believe it or not, but I haven't been fifty-five forever. I do remember what it was like to be young and caught in the rush of a new romance."

So, she'd heard at least the second half of the conversation.

Awesome.

Martha nodded at the group of five men, still chatting and laughing down on the lawn. Gordon was now the one holding court. "I met Gordon in 1967, five months before he was drafted. He proposed to me the day he left. I was only twenty-one, but I already knew he was the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with."

"You said yes, I assume."

Martha's tone was pure steel. "Without a moment's hesitation."

"It must have been very hard for you, seeing him go off to the war, and waiting for him to come home."

"The longest three years of my life. But what mattered is that he _did_ come home." Her expression turned sombre. "I knew several women at Law School who weren't so lucky."

Michelle couldn't quite believe she and her boss were having a bonding moment. And a bonding moment about men, of all things. Not feminism, or politics, or some complicated legal issue. _Men_. It was all very strange.

"William and I have only been dating for a week," she revealed. "We're having fun, but I think it'll be a while before we consider anything more long-term."

Martha frowned. "I thought the two of you had been dating for a couple of months?"

Shit. Caught out by her own lies. And by her own boss, no less. This was _exactly_ what she'd hoped to avoid.

Sighing, Martha asked, "Or, was that just a ploy to keep a certain co-worker's attentions at bay?"

So, Martha knew about Ian. But to what extent? Did she think he was just a minor annoyance? Did she know how many women in the office he bothered, and what kind of outrageous comments he'd made?

Whatever Martha knew, honesty was the best approach. "It, uh, it might have been, yeah."

Martha's expression turned grave. "I usually don't approve of deception, but in this case, I think I understand why you lied." In a quieter voice, she added, "Don't assume his behaviour hasn't been noticed."

"Does that mean it's going to be addressed?" It was probably cheeky of her to ask, but as an unwilling recipient of the behaviour in question, Michelle felt she had a right to know.

The steel tone came out again. "Let's just say, Tara and I are dealing with it."

A cold shiver ran up Michelle's spine—Tara was the company's HR director. "That's good to know," she said, keeping her voice as neutral as she could. She would be happy not to have to deal with Ian, but she didn't want to come across as taking pleasure from a co-worker's misfortunes, no matter how much he might deserve it. "Was that what you wanted to talk to me about?" she asked. Strange, if it was, since Ian sometimes badgered Lena as well.

Martha shook her head. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about the Mendelsohn case."

"The lawsuit against EMI?" The case would be _huge_. If it went the right way, the company would earn enough to pay the bills for the next five years, maybe even to expand to a fourth floor. She hadn't been read in on the file—most of the work so far had fallen on senior partners—but everyone in Martha's division knew what it was.

"The EMI lawsuit, yes. It's only in the preliminary stages right now, but we reviewed it at the senior partner meeting last week, and the firm has decided that I'll take the lead."

That made sense. Something this big needed their most experienced person at the helm, and Martha had forgotten more about trademark and copyright law than most of the people in her division would ever learn.

"I'm sure it'll be an interesting challenge."

"It will. In my opinion, our client has an extremely good case, but EMI has more money and lawyers than God. We can win, but we'll need to give it our absolute best." Martha turned to look straight at her. "Which is why I want you on the team."

Michelle froze. Had she heard Martha right. "You want _me_?" she asked, pointing a finger at her own chest.

"I do, yes."

She didn't know what to say. This was _huge_. More than huge—this could make (or break) her career. "Thank you," she eventually managed. "I'm honoured."

"I appreciate the sentiment, Miss McNally, but I don't need you to be honoured." Martha smiled to take the sting out of her words. "I need you to be dedicated, efficient and thorough. As dedicated, efficient and thorough as you were with the Castillo contract last month."

"I didn't realize you'd read it."

"Of course I read it. And it was extremely well put together. Other than one tiny spelling mistake, I was hard-pushed to find a single problem with it. I doubt I could have produced a better contract myself."

She felt dizzy—as if she'd been punched in the head. "Thank you."

Martha frowned. "You seem a little surprised."

"To be honest, I am."

"Why's that?"

Michelle took a deep breath. If she was going to be honest, she couldn't half-ass it—she had to go the whole way. "Because I've always been under the impression you think my work is sub-par."

Martha was silent for a few moments. When she spoke, it was in a disturbingly calm and quiet voice, as if she was having trouble keeping her temper in check. "Miss McNally, why on _earth_ would I ever think that?"

"Maybe the fact I've been with the firm for almost four years, and your comment about the Castillo contract is the first real compliment you've ever paid me?"

"Is that what you expect me to do? Shower you with compliments? Tell everyone how brilliant you are? Massage your ego?"

Michelle felt her own temper beginning to fray. "My ego is fine. I don't need my boss to tell people how good I am. But I _do_ need to know my boss values the work I'm doing."

"And you don't think I do."

Michelle sighed. "Not always, no."

"Have I ever told you to your face that your work is poor?"

"No."

"Have you ever heard me shower compliments on other people?"

She must have, but right now, she couldn't think of when.

Martha nodded. "I can see you're trying to provide an example. Which you likely won't be able to find, because that's not how I work." She stepped closer, crossing her arms. Her wedding ring—a plain, slender, battered gold band—glinted in the sun. "Miss McNally, I'm not a huge believer in constantly telling people what I think of their abilities, because I prefer to allow my staffing decisions to speak for themselves. If I had come to the conclusion your work was sub-par, you would know, because you wouldn't have a job on my floor. I would have given you your marching orders a long time ago. As I'm sure you're aware, I don't suffer fools, and I don't suffer incompetence, either. The very fact you're still on my team automatically means I think your work is good."

" _Do_ you think I'm the best researcher in the whole office?"

"That wasn't the precise phrase I used, but words to that effect, yes."

"Why are you always so hard on me, then?" Michelle blurted before she could stop herself.

Martha's expression turned cold. "You mean like in the meeting last week."

"Yes."

"In that particular instance, because you're my highest-earning and by _far_ my most capable associate lawyer, and not only did you make me come looking for you, but when you finally showed up at the meeting, it was obvious to everyone in the room that you weren't fully prepared."

"I _was_ prepared. I just got slightly distracted by something else I was working on."

Green eyes flashing, Martha slapped a hand on the wall. "But you can't afford to be distracted, no matter how slightly. What if that wasn't just an internal meeting, but a meeting with a prospective client? Or a meeting with an opposing party's lawyers? Or a meeting with a mediator or judge? How do you think it would look to them, to have you rushing into the room at the very last minute, stuttering apologies and scrambling to make sense of your files?"

"Pretty bad," Michelle admitted. She hated that she was in the wrong, but she couldn't deny her boss made a good point. She would be pissed with anyone who did what she'd done to her.

"Exactly. And I know I challenged you in the meeting. Yes, partly because I was angry with your tardy behaviour, but also because I need you to be able to rise to the challenge. This is not a profession for the faint-hearted. Legal problems often bring out the worst in people. If you can't handle me cutting you off in a meeting, how will you handle deposing a verbally hostile client? Or a client who responds to losing a case by threatening to kill you and burn down your home? You assume because you work with intellectual property issues, instead of murder and rape, or human and civil rights violations, that you won't see outrageous behaviour like that?"

"I never assume anything."

"Good," said Martha firmly. "You shouldn't. Because assuming and knowing are two different things." Sighing, she stepped away slightly. "Miss McNally, whether you like it or not, your actions represent our firm. And our firm has my name on it, which means your actions represent _me_. So, when I ask you to attend a meeting, regardless of who it's with or what it's about, whether it's at six o'clock on a Monday morning or six o'clock on a Friday night, I expect you to be on time, and to be absolutely, _completely_ prepared."

"Which I usually am."

"Which you usually are," Martha acknowledged. "Last Thursday was, what shall we call it, a momentary aberration?"

"A one-off, yes. You have my word it won't happen again."

"I believe you." Martha's expression softened. "I told you I remember what it feels like to be young, but I also remember what it feels like to be a young lawyer. I know it's hard. There's so much to learn, and you're trying to log as many hours as you can to earn as much revenue as you can for the firm. You have weeks when you're drowning in work and it's a struggle to keep your head above water, but at the same time, you're trying to make a name for yourself, so you'll be given the kind of cases that will help you earn your partner promotion."

"It's like I'm trying to swim and tap dance at the same time."

"You'll get through it. You're going to earn that partner promotion. And much sooner than you think." Martha held up a hand. "Not in September. That's _too_ soon, even for someone as good as you."

Even for someone as good as her.

Jesus.

"Thank you," Michelle said, feeling slightly humbled. "It honestly means a lot to me to hear you say that."

"You're very welcome. But please, keep it between us for now. One of the unfortunate things about the promotion process is that not all of your peers will be offered the same opportunity at the same time. Some of them will spend much longer at the associate level than you. Some may never be promoted, but stay with the firm to become a senior associate, or maybe even a special counsel. Some will reach the limit of what they can do at the firm, and be asked to seek employment elsewhere."

Was that last point part of her plan for Ian?

Martha checked the time. "But Gordon and I have another engagement tonight, so I'm afraid I'll have to leave this here. Can you come in for seven-thirty tomorrow?"

"Of course." Even if she stayed over at William's—his place was closer to her office than hers.

"Come to my office, I'll have Stephanie order in some breakfast for us, we'll look at the Mendelsohn case together."

"I'm looking forward to reading the details."

"We'll talk more tomorrow, enjoy the rest of your day." Martha turned to head for the house. Two steps later, she paused. "Oh, and Miss McNally?"

"Yes?"

"Lena is right."

"About what?"

"About William." Martha's smile lit up her whole face. "He _is_ one seriously fine piece of man."

As Martha departed, the fine piece of man in question arrived, jogging up the stairs from the lawn.

"Hey," he said as he strode towards her. "You doing okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You sure?" he asked, brows pulling together. "Cus you don't look fine. You look a bit shocked."

"I _am_ shocked. And more than a bit."

"What's wrong?"

"I just had a really interesting conversation with Martha."

"She didn't tear you another new one, did she?"

"No. Quite the opposite, in fact."

His brows shot up. "She said something _nice_?"

"Very."

"Which was?"

She moved closer, not wanting a nearby cluster of people to overhear her next words. "She told me I'm going to be promoted to partner much sooner than I think," she whispered.

"That's good, right?"

"Extremely."

"How soon are we talking?"

"She said not this year, so not in the promotion round coming up in September, but they sometimes do a smaller round in the spring as well, so it could be as early as next March."

His face broke into a smile. "That's fantastic."

"Feels pretty nice, yeah. It's what I've been working towards for the last seven years. Good to know I'm finally going to make it." Two people broke off from the group to stand a couple of feet behind him. "Let's talk about it on the way home," she said, pointing to indicate they weren't alone.

"Speaking of being on the way home, when are we gonna head out?" He looked at his watch. "We've been here for almost three hours."

She grinned. "You starting to feel a little bit antsy?"

"A little bit, yeah. I'm a sociable guy, but there's only so much schmoozing and smiling I can do. Getting to the point where I need to go home and switch my face off."

Switch his face off—that was a good way to put it.

"You, uh, you feel like you need some _coffee_?" she said.

"Sure," he said, taking her question literally. A grin spread across his face as he remembered what she was actually asking. "I think I'm up for a couple of cups."

She shook her head in mock disapproval. "Only a couple? What's the matter, Sergeant? You can't handle your caffeine now as well as you used to?"

"Can handle my caffeine just fine. But the coffee _I_ make's long-lasting stuff. You have more than two cups, it'll keep you awake _all night_."

Which maybe wasn't the best idea, especially since she now had a seven-thirty meeting to go to tomorrow.

"Then, let's stick to two."

She saw Gordon Wilson come up the far set of stairs, heading into the house. "Martha and Gordon are on their way out. Let's wait a few minutes, give them some time to wrap up and leave, then we'll make our own escape. Deal?"

"Deal."

"Anyone you want to talk to again?" she asked.

"Nah, I'm good. Already said goodbye to the guys I was with. Don't feel the need to go find anyone else just to tell them I'm leaving." He smirked. "Not even Ian."

"Haven't seen him since he stormed off in a huff."

"Me neither. With any luck, he's already left."

She sighed as she scanned the lawn. "You might not need to talk to anyone again, but I'm the one who works for the firm, so I should probably do a quick round of goodbyes."

"You do that, I'm gonna take a last trip to the head." He pointed at the house. "Meet you back in the front hall in five?"

"Meet you there, then we'll say goodbye to the Gellers together."

She did a quick run through the crowd, saying 'hi and bye' to a handful of people, then headed back to the house, looking for one or both of their hosts. She scanned the thinning crowd in the Great Room—there was no sign of David or Amanda.

She walked through to the hall to wait for William.

The hospitality guy was still there. "Did you need anything fetched from the cloakroom, ma'am?"

"Thank you, no, I'm good."

The guy nodded and went back to his post.

A few minutes later, William jogged up the stairs from the basement.

"Where the hell did you go?" she asked. Hopefully, not to do anything naughty.

"To the bathroom."

"There's one right there," she said, pointing to a door at the end of the hall. "Why did you go to the one downstairs?"

"Cus I wanted to see the movie theatre."

"Did you find it?"

He grinned. "Took a bit of searching, but eventually, yeah."

"Was it everything you hoped for and more?"

"It's pretty nice."

"We done then?"

He waved to the door. "Ready to pack up and head out when you are."

"We need to say goodbye to the Gellers first. My mother would whip me six ways from Sunday if I tried to leave a party without thanking the hosts."

"And we shouldn't do _anything_ your mother might disapprove of."

Except have filthy, hot, pre-marital sex all over his bed, couch, table and floor…

"Just need to figure out where the hell they've gone. They're not in the garden, or the Great Room."

"Maybe they've gone upstairs to do something their mothers would disapprove of as well," he whispered.

She smacked him on the arm. "Don't be vulgar. They wouldn't do that while they're throwing a party."

"Don't see why not. _I_ would."

"You shush."

Behind them, the hospitality guy cleared his throat. "If you're looking for Mister and Mrs. Geller, I believe they're with a group of guests in the Family Room."

Michelle flashed a grateful smile—at least _he_ knew how to help. "Thank you. We'll find them there."

As if summoned, the Gellers appeared, emerging from the corridor on the left. David smiled as he saw them. "You kids on your way out?"

"We're heading home, yes," Michelle said.

Amanda moved in for a hug. "Was lovely to see you again, dear. You enjoy the rest of your summer. Don't let this ogre work you too hard," she said, wagging a finger at her spouse. " _Or_ Martha," she added. She laid a hand on William's arm. "Was very nice to meet you, William. I hope we'll see you again next summer."

David chipped in, "Or at the company's Christmas dinner."

"Was great to meet both of you, too," William said. "Thank you for having us, we had a really great time." He reached out to shake David's hand. "Thank you," he repeated.

"Thank you both for coming. Glad you guys enjoyed yourself," David said.

Social obligations discharged, they wandered back to her car.

She was glad they were leaving, and not just because her 'talking to people' well had run dry. Clouds were gathering on the horizon, and the breeze that plucked at her dress was cool. Less agreeable weather—heavy rain from the look of the clouds—was probably about to roll in.

"That wasn't so bad," William said.

"Was pretty good, yeah."

"Food was great, and most of the people were nice. Can think of worse ways to spend a Sunday afternoon."

"You don't regret helping me, then?"

He took her hand to squeeze it. "Course I don't, no."

"Thank you," she said, squeezing back. "For helping me, I mean. Pretty sure what you did today saved my professional skin."

"You're very welcome." He grinned. "To be honest, it was worth it just to watch your critics eat crow."

She pretended to tsk. "Careful, Sergeant. Your Schadenfreude is showing again."

"I _am_ a quarter German."

And at least a quarter American. But what the hell were the other two quarters? Would he ever trust her enough to tell her?

Behind them, rapid footsteps crunched on the gravel, growing louder as they drew near. "Hey, there!" a masculine voice she didn't know called out.

She turned to discover the voice belonged to a trim, well-dressed, middle-aged man. He was moving with purpose and looking right at her—his shout had obviously been meant for them. The man waved as he realized she'd seen him; she grabbed William's arm to make him stop.

The man smiled as he approached. "Sorry to bother you, but I was hoping to catch you before you left. Michelle, isn't it?" he said, extending a hand. "Amanda told me you work for Martha Wilson."

"Michelle McNally, that's me, yes." She shook the hand. "Forgive me, but I don't believe we've met."

"We haven't, no. I'm not with the firm. My wife's a lawyer, an old friend of David's from school." Still smiling, the man turned to her date. "And you must be William," he said.

Eyes wary, William nodded. "That's me, yeah."

"Believe it or not, it was actually you I was hoping to talk to." The man stuck out his hand again. "Name's Jim Hutton. If you're not in a rush to leave, can I steal five minutes of your time?"

"Sure," said William, shaking the hand.

"You need to talk to William in private?" Michelle asked, ready to give the two men room, even though she was dying to know what this Hutton guy wanted. "Cus I can go ahead to the car."

"Not at all, no," said Hutton.

William asked, "So, what can I help you with?"

"Was just talking to Gordon Wilson, he mentioned you were in the Marines, served a few tours in MESG."

"That's right."

"And now, you're at the SFS, heading into your final year?"

"Uh huh?"

"Do you mind if I ask what course you're taking?"

"The Bachelor's degree in International History."

"Did you declare a specialty?"

William nodded. "Eastern Europe."

"And what did you declare for your modern language requirement?"

Interesting, that Hutton knew how the SFS worked…

"Russian," William said.

"Completely fluent, or just fluent enough to pass the test?"

"Completely."

"You speak any other languages?"

"Fluent German as well, enough Spanish and Arabic to hold a decent conversation."

Michelle could see from the set of his jaw that William was reaching his debriefing limits. Hutton better be ready to get to the point.

But Hutton wasn't ready to show his cards yet. "And you've lived in various countries, I guess. From when you were in MESG?"

"Seven in all, including the States." William frowned. "Mister Hutton—"

"Call me Jim, please," Hutton interjected.

"Jim, yeah, look, I don't mean to be rude, but is there a reason you're asking me all of these personal questions?"

Hutton grinned. "How would you like a job?"

William blinked like a lizard. "Sorry?"

"Let me back up a few steps. Have you given any thought yet as to where you might want to work once you've finished with your course?"

"A little bit, yeah."

"And?" Hutton prompted.

"And I'm probably going to look at State."

Michelle wasn't surprised—given what he was studying, and the languages he could speak, that seemed an obvious place to start.

"You have any contacts on the inside?" Hutton asked.

"A handful, yeah," William said. "People who were on the staff of some of the embassy missions I was assigned to. I've already contacted a couple of them, let them know I'll be looking for work, they've all told me they'll recommend me if I apply."

Which spoke well of his character as well as his talents…

"State would take you in a heartbeat." Hutton's smile turned almost feral. "But so would we."

"Who's 'we'?" Michelle asked, even though it was none of her business.

Hutton pulled his wallet from his back trouser pocket, flipped it open and combed through the contents until he found a business card. He handed the card to William.

William's eyes went wide. "You're with the CIA," he said.

Hutton nodded. "I'm in the Eastern Europe and Russia group, it's my job to make sure we're properly staffed, so I'm always looking for smart, capable, qualified people." He put his wallet away. "You get your Bachelor's from the SFS, you'll tick all three of those boxes."

"You're saying you want to _hire_ me?"

"I am, yes."

"Support or operations?" William asked. "Cus I don't think I want to be a spy."

"We're on the support side. We mostly analyze and interpret data, write a lot of reports. No dead drops, no car chases, no invisible ink, no suicide pills, no wigs and disguises. We leave that stuff to the clandestine guys."

"Didn't think there was much to watch in Russia these days. The Cold War's over, we won, they lost. Aren't they all good, obedient capitalists now?" William said.

Hutton jammed his hands in his pockets. "You follow the Russian political scene?"

"Not in depth, but I keep my eye on it."

"What would you say if I told you, I don't think Russia's going to be as quiet as most people think?"

"You think there's new trouble brewing?"

"Maybe not right now, but eventually, yeah."

"Any particular reason?"

Hutton took a few seconds to answer, as if deciding what he wanted to say. "What do you know about the new guy?"

"Putin?"

"Yeah."

"Not much. Only that he used to be KGB, was posted to Dresden for the last half of the eighties, resigned in ninety-one when the Soviet Union collapsed, worked for the mayor of St. Petersburg for a while, moved to Moscow to work for Yeltsin, served as his Chief of Staff, then as head of the FSB, then Yeltsin basically hand-picked him to be his successor."

In Michelle's book, that counted as more than 'not much'.

"I assume you know what the FSB is."

"The _Federal'naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti_ , or Federal Security Service. Their equivalent of the FBI, responsible for internal security matters. The most important of the KGB successor organizations."

"And what do you make of the fact Russia's new president is a former head of a state security organization?" Hutton said.

"Haven't given it much thought. Not like we haven't done the same thing. George Bush was Director of Central Intelligence for Gerald Ford, didn't stop him from running for President after Reagan." William frowned. "Why? Do you think Putin's going to be a problem?"

"Let's just say I'm a little concerned Russia's about to start another affair with authoritarianism."

"Would be a real shame if that happened. Would love to see them break the cycle, try to become something truly democratic instead." William flipped the card, checking the back, then flipped it again. "What do your co-workers at the CIA think?"

"Some people agree with me, some think I'm jumping at shadows." Hutton smirked. "Some think I'm grandstanding to try to make the Russia group important again."

"Is it _not_ important?" Michelle asked.

"Sure it is," said Hutton. "Just not as important as it used to be. We have bigger problems in other regions to deal with now."

" _Are_ you grandstanding to make the Russia desk important again?" William asked.

Hutton shook his head. "Not really my style. I'm just trying to be ready for whatever happens. In case it goes south, and we end up in another Cold War."

Michelle added, "Or, a new type of war we haven't fought yet."

"Exactly." Hutton pointed at her, but looked at William. "Smart as hell, this one. Don't let her out of your sight."

William aimed a wink at her. "I'm keeping an eye on her, don't worry."

"So, yeah, I'm always looking to add to my team." Hutton pointed at his card. "I can't bring you on right now, you need to have at least a Bachelor's under your belt, that's a non-negotiable requirement, but if you're interested, give me a call at the end of the year. Someone in our hiring department owes me a favour. I'll make sure you don't get lost in the crowd."

"Does the agency receive a lot of applications?" Michelle asked.

"Right now, about five or six hundred a week?"

"A _week_?" Jesus. That was worse than Harvard Law.

"Everyone wants to serve their country, it seems." Hutton sighed. "It's certainly not because of the salaries we're offering, I can tell you that."

"Thank you for the consideration," William said. "Very kind. Appreciate it."

Hutton dipped his head. "You're very welcome. And feel free to call me if you have any questions. I'll answer them as well as I can."

William dropped the card in his shirt pocket. "I will. And thanks again."

"Can I ask you one final question?" Hutton said.

"Sure."

Hutton said something in what Michelle assumed was Russian; William said something in what sounded like the same language right back.

The sound of all those smooshed z's and s's made her go weak at the knees. How did he even move his mouth that way? She wouldn't be able to pronounce those sounds if her life depended on it.

Hutton seemed to agree. "Your pronunciation is excellent," he said. "As if you've been speaking it since birth."

The tension in William's expression returned. Did Hutton realize—he was wandering onto dangerous ground?

"I have," was all William said.

Another tiny sliver of personal information. Her brain buzzed, trying to think of reasons why someone would speak a language from birth. He hadn't been born there, hadn't lived there during his formative years. Did he have Russian relations, either in Germany or here in the States? A grandparent like his Oma Johanna, but on his father's side instead?

Hutton was curious as well. "Really? Would you mind if I asked why?"

The muscle twitching in William's jaw told her yes, he absolutely would. His eyes flicked sideways to her, as if he was trying to decide how to answer with her listening in. "That's, uh, that's kind of a long story," he said—his standard deflecting response. Was her presence holding him back? Would he have given another answer if it had just been him and the CIA man?

Thankfully, Hutton got the message. "Maybe if and when you apply, you can tell me it then?"

"Of course."

"But I've taken up enough of your time. I won't keep you any longer." Hutton held out his hand. "Was great to meet you, hope you'll keep me in mind when you start your job search."

William took and shook the hand again. "I will, absolutely. Was great to meet you as well."

With a smile and a dip of his head to her, Hutton turned and strode back to the house.

William blew out a breath. "Jesus. Didn't see _that_ coming when I got out of bed this morning." He raised his hands to massage his face.

"It's good, though, right? That he wants to give you a job?"

"I guess so, yeah."

"Would you _want_ to work for the CIA?"

"Not sure. Kinda had my heart set on State. I'd have to think about it."

"Would probably be interesting work. And it's another federal agency on the General Schedule scale, so the pay wouldn't be any better or worse than State." She wrinkled her nose. "But if they put you at Langley, you'd have to commute across the river." No job in the world was worth _that_ horror.

"You forgetting we're gonna buy a house southwest of the river?"

His fictional 'life plans', right. "Hmm, yeah. We'll need the room for the three kids we're having."

"Who said anything about _three_?"

Grinning, she slipped her hand into his. "Let's head to the car."

They'd parked right at the end of the road, so it took them a few minutes to reach it. As they approached, she pulled her keys from her purse and threw them to him. "I'll repeat my warning from earlier about not leaving so much as a scratch," she said.

"And I'll repeat my answer about relaxing."

"I'll relax when we're home in one piece." She paused mid-step. "Which reminds me, are we going to your place, or mine?"

"Was gonna say we could go to mine, but you'd have to stay off the booze. Unless you wanted to cab it home later, come back tomorrow to pick up your car?"

Time to make her confession. "Yeah, I, uh, I actually thought about that in advance."

"And?"

"And I, uh"—she cleared her throat—"I packed an overnight bag." Why were her ears so hot, and why was the grass growing along the curb suddenly so fascinating? "You know. In case you wanted me to stay over again."

"Not sure my grandmother would approve."

"Yeah, well, if it's any consolation, neither would my mother." This was already hard enough—did he have to make it even harder? "Not entirely sure about it myself."

"What, about staying over?"

She nodded.

"Why?"

"Just… reasons."

"Are you worried I'll think poorly of you?"

"A little bit, yeah. Or, that you'll think I do this all the time."

"Even if you did, what the hell would it matter? You're a grown woman. Where you do or don't spend your nights is none of anyone's goddamn business."

"It's just, some men are really judgemental that way." And, if she was being fair, a shitload of women as well.

"I'm not some men."

And wasn't that the truth?

He came to stand in front of her, ducking his head to catch her gaze. "Would it help if I told you, I'd love to have you stay over again?"

"It would, yes."

He kissed her gently on the forehead. "Great. Then, let's head to mine."

"What about the car?" she asked. "Is there somewhere to park at your place?" She couldn't remember what the parking was like at the front—open, or permitted for residents only.

"Alex is still out of town, so we can put it in his space out back." He grabbed her hands to pull her close. " _And_ you can make as much noise as you want to without worrying about who's listening in." He moved his mouth to her ear. "Which is just as well, cus what I've got planned, you're gonna be making a crapload of noise."

"Is that so?" she said, snaking her arms around his neck.

"You're gonna be begging me not to stop." He shrugged. "Or, to stop. Whatever works." He covered her mouth with his. She groaned slightly, he deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue into her mouth. He pushed her up against the car, grabbing her ass, pressing his crotch into her hip. The heat and tension in her own groin rose to an unbearable level. Another twenty seconds of this, she would let him pull up her dress, yank off her panties and fuck her senseless right there.

"Well, well, well," an unwelcome arrival said. "If it isn't Shelly and Billy, the world's cutest and horniest couple."

Sighing, William pulled away, revealing Ian and Aaron standing beside Ian's Camaro, parked a couple of car lengths away on the other side of the street. Why hadn't she noticed the yellow car when they'd parked? Maybe because they'd been too busy bickering about how close the front wheel was to the curb.

"Something we can do for you, Ian?" William asked, using the right name for once.

Ian shook his head. "Just making sure the two of you don't get arrested." He gestured at the surrounding houses. "This is a respectable neighbourhood, you know. Lots of seniors and kids. You need to keep that sort of behaviour in check."

"Awfully kind of you to remind us," William drily said.

"Don't mention it." Ian pointed at Michelle's car. "Don't suppose you want to head over to the 495 to let our babies slip their reins?"

Jesus. Not the racing bullshit again.

William answered for her. "No, thanks. We need to get home. Got a busy evening ahead."

"Lemme guess. You have to iron the creases into your pants?"

Aaron snickered.

The smile William turned on Ian was like nothing she'd seen from him before—wolfish, wicked, conniving.

"No ironing," William said. "Just gonna have a cold beer, strip Michelle out of her clothes, fuck her into the mattress for the rest of the night. Or maybe the floor. Or maybe the couch." Shrugging, he pressed the fob to unlock the door. "Lots of choices. You know how it is."

Ian's expression told her that no, he didn't.

"Not sure I needed to know that," Ian said.

"Then, you shouldn't have asked," William said, coldly and bluntly unsympathetic. He opened the passenger door to wave her in. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we have some personal business to attend to. You guys have a safe journey home." He was halfway to the driver side of the car when he stopped. "Oh, and Ian?"

"What?" Ian asked.

"Don't _ever_ call my girlfriend Shelly again."

Girlfriend. Jesus. He'd said it as well. She wanted to blow him right here in the car.

"Her name is Michelle," William continued, "or if that's too hard for you to remember, just call her Miss McNally instead." He went to the door, pulled it open, climbed in and pulled it shut behind him as hard as he could.

He made no move to put the key in the engine.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Absolutely fine," he said.

"Then, shouldn't we be leaving now?"

He pointed his thumb over his shoulder. "I'm waiting for jackass to move away first. Don't want him tailing me back into town, trying to force me to race, or accidentally running into me."

"Thank you," she quietly said.

"For what?"

"For telling him not to call me Shelly." She wasn't sure the instruction would stick, but she appreciated the moral support.

"Like I said earlier, he's only doing it to annoy you. He needed to be put in his place."

Behind them, a car engine over-revved. A few seconds later, Ian's Camaro pulled out; with a squeal of his tires, he sped away.

"Let's give him a few minutes," she said.

"And let's not take the 495."

The side of her head began to twitch. Sighing, she massaged her temples, trying to keep the building headache at bay.

"You okay?" William asked, frowning, laying a hand on her thigh.

"I'm fine. It's just been a crazy couple of weeks, and I'm starting to feel like I don't know if I'm coming or going."

"What's been so crazy?"

"Okay, let's see." She raised her fingers to count off the points. "The same day I met you, I managed to really piss off my boss. Then, in trying to fend off Ian's advances, I almost got caught in a massive lie. You agreed to help me cover, so I bought you dinner to say thanks, but somehow, I ended up sleeping with you as well."

"You make it sound like an accident."

"Sorry?"

"When you say you ended up sleeping with me. It's not like you bumped into me, and all your clothes fell off."

She shot him a dirty look.

"Sorry," he said, grinning.

"Then, against all odds, everything turned out great. We aced the party, Ian and Aaron looked like fools, nobody knows I actually lied, and everyone thinks I'm going out with an amazing guy."

"I _did_ promise to be charming."

A promise on which he'd more than delivered. "Then, not only did Martha tell me I'm going to make partner much sooner than I thought, she also asked me to work with her on the biggest lawsuit the company's ever had." She wouldn't tell him what Martha had said about Ian's behaviour having been noticed—she considered that privileged information for now. "Then, to top it all off, you step on Ian so hard, you probably left an Ian-shaped dent in the road."

"So, crazy in a good way, then?"

"Absolutely." She laid her hand on top of his. "But you know what the best part of it was?"

"What?"

"Five minutes ago, when you were bitching at Ian, you referred to me as your girlfriend."

"Was that wrong?"

"I'm not sure. It was wonderful. But _am_ I? Your girlfriend, I mean? Are we _actually_ dating now?"

"You think we're _not_ dating? After what we did to each other last night?"

"Hate to break it to you, Sergeant, but some men wouldn't see it that way. They'd be happy to turn up at my place for sex, then sneak out before I wake up and never see or speak to me again."

He shrugged. "Like I said, I'm not some men."

"I'm beginning to realize that, yeah."

"Do you _want_ us to be dating?"

She had to restrain herself from shouting her answer; _yes_ , _yes_ , _yes_ , she wanted to scream. "Um, please?"

He leaned over to kiss her. "Good, cus I do as well," he murmured.

"Okay, but for my peace of mind, can we be _absolutely_ clear on what we mean?"

"Jesus, you really are a lawyer, aren't you?"

"I just need to know where I stand. I don't want to find out two months from now that your idea of dating's different from mine." She hated herself for feeling so insecure she even needed to raise the issue; he was going to think she was a bunny boiler for sure. "Like I said earlier, I _really_ like you, and I don't think I'm going to be able to keep this as a casual thing. If casual's what you want, that's okay, no shame in that, but I'd rather you just tell me now, so we can say 'thanks, this was fun' and go our separate ways."

"You forgetting I told you I really like you as well?"

"No, but—"

"No buts. I'm not in the habit of saying things I don't mean. I don't want this to be a casual thing, either."

"So?"

"So, we're dating," he said. "Formally and exclusively. I'm your boyfriend and you're my girlfriend. Neither of us will get involved with anyone else while we're involved with each other. And if either of us reaches the point where we don't want to be dating, we'll talk about it like rational adults. No tantrums, no throwing mugs, no ripping up shirts or slashing tires. We'll just say thank you, shake hands and walk away. How about that? That sound okay?"

It sounded amazing. "Yes."

He kissed her again, gently cupping her chin. "Then, we're good?"

"There's one other thing."

Eyes wary, he pulled back into his seat. "What's that?"

"We've only known each other a week, so I understand why you don't want to share some of your personal information with me, but I've shared a fair amount of mine with you, so I'm feeling a little left in the dark."

"What kind of things do you want to know?"

"Why you were born and raised in Berlin. Why you moved back to the States. Where your mother is. Where your _father_ is. If you do or don't have a brother or sister. Why you speak fluent Russian."

"That's a lot of questions." His tone was as neutral as his expression—she couldn't tell if she was making him think, or pissing him off.

"I know. And I'm not expecting you to answer them all straight away. But I would eventually like to hear an explanation."

"Would you feel better if I told you it's because I have some trust issues?"

Actually, yes. At least now, she knew it wasn't something she'd done. "Whatever you tell me, I promise I won't ever share it with anyone else. I work with confidential stuff all the time. I know how to be discreet." Lena and Kate would be disappointed, but life could be a bitch that way.

He shook his head. "Not the kind of trust I mean."

"Then what?"

He didn't answer, just sighed and laid his hands on the wheel. "How about I make you a deal?"

"I'm a lawyer. I _love_ making deals."

That got her a smile. "I'm not ready to answer your questions right now, but I promise I'll answer them soon. I just want us to enjoy ourselves first, go out on some dates, have lots of sex, get to know each other some more before I go into the serious stuff."

"That sounds fair."

"Great."

"But I have one condition," she said.

"What's that?"

"Can you _please_ just promise me now, you're not hiding the fact one of your relatives is a serial killer?"

His smile grew wider. "No serial killers, I promise. And no war criminals, either. Just a lot of plain, old, regular, messed up people."

"Then, we have a deal." She realized she could serve him a carrot. "If you tell me about your family, I'll tell you why I have a black titanium credit card."

He frowned. "You told me a guy at the bank did you a favour."

"He did."

"And that he got you into the program through the back door."

She winced. "Okay, that part was maybe stretching the truth."

"That's becoming a bad habit of yours," he said, with mischief in his eyes.

She held up her hands. "No more little white lies, I promise." Or white lies of any size, for that matter. The one she'd told Ian about her love life had almost come back to bite her on the ass. It was only luck and William Cooper's generous nature that had saved her from professional ruin. From now on, she would stick to the truth.

His eyes narrowed. "So, if the guy at the bank didn't get you in through the back door, does that mean you're actually rich?"

"I'm not ready to answer your questions right now, but I promise I'll answer them soon."

"Miss McNally, has anyone ever told you, you're a _seriously_ terrible person?"

"Takes one to know one, Sergeant Cooper."

"Just William. Or Mister Cooper. I didn't stay in the Corps until I retired, so I'm not actually allowed to use my old rank."

She learned a new thing every day. "But not Billy, right?" she asked, remember how he'd reacted to Ian's use of the name.

"Not Billy, or Bill." He wrinkled his nose. "I'm an ex-Marine, not a goat. If you have to shorten it, call me Will."

"And I prefer Mike. Only my parents call me Michelle."

"Mike. I like it. Much better than something like Missy or Shelly."

"So, we're good?"

"For now, I think so, yeah." He cranked the engine and slipped the car into drive. "Let's head back to my place. If memory serves, we have a coffee table to punish."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One month after the party, Michelle has lunch with her friends.

**Sunday August 26th, 2001**

She couldn't see any sign of her friends. Where the _hell_ were Lena and the gang sitting?

A waving hand caught Michelle's eye, in the back, near one of the windows. She smiled and waved back, seeing the hand belonged to Janelle. Hitching her bag, she carefully wended her way through the chairs, heading for the round table for five with an empty seat between Lena and Anne.

"Sorry I'm late," she said, sinking into her chair. "There was some kind of trouble with the train. We sat at the station for almost ten minutes." Given how punctual she usually was, ten maddening, stressful minutes.

"Got me as well," Eloise said. "Think they're doing some maintenance work on the signals."

"S'all good," Lena said. "Important thing is, we're all here now."

"You guys order anything yet?" Michelle asked, setting her bag under her chair to grab a menu card from the rack.

Lena nodded. "But just the drinks. Hope you don't mind, but I ordered a mimosa for you."

"Perfect, thank you." Michelle didn't usually drink before noon, but this was a special brunch with her friends—it wouldn't hurt to make an exception today. "Large or small?"

Lena gave her a scornful look. "Mike, honey, you think we're having _small_ mimosas after the week we all just worked, you're out of your tiny, lily white mind."

Michelle grinned. "Was a little bit crazy, wasn't it?" She hadn't left until almost seven on Friday, but she'd gone from work straight to William's place. Between the chilled white wine and the sex, he'd eased her stress in no time at all.

"How many hours did you end up billing?" Anne asked.

"Almost sixty," Michelle replied, making Eloise wince. "Hoping this week won't be as bad."

Janelle tsk'd and shook her head. "You won't make junior partner next year with a slacker outlook like that."

"And I won't make junior partner at all if I die of exhaustion first," Michelle pointed out. She was ambitious, but not to the point of being willing to ruin her life or her health. "Making partner's a marathon, not a sprint. If I work hard and put in the hours, I'll get there in my own good time."

A server appeared at Lena's shoulder. "Okay, ladies, I have four large mimosas and a soda and lime."

"The soda and lime's mine," Eloise said, raising a hand.

One by one, the drinks were dispensed. "You ladies need anything else?" the server asked.

Lena shook her head. "Drinks are good for now, thank you. Come back in five or ten, we should be ready to order our food." She tapped on her glass. "But just so you know, I'm gonna have a couple of these, so you might want to leave the bar tab open."

The server grinned. "No problem. When you need another, just give me a wave." She turned and headed back to the bar.

Lena held her mimosa over the centre of the table. "Here's to making it through a terrible week."

" _And_ to spending time with friends," Michelle added. Something she absolutely planned to keep doing, fantastic, hot, new boyfriend or not.

"I'll drink to that," Janelle said.

Five glasses chimed together; everyone paused to try out their drinks.

Eloise turned to Michelle. "So, how's the Mendelsohn case working out?" she asked. "I hear it's giving Martha kittens."

"Nuh uh," a scowling Lena said, wielding a rebuking finger. "This is our monthly ladies' lunch out. No work gossip today." She flashed her brows; her scowl became a mischievous grin. "Unless it's the really scurrilous kind, cus that's always allowed."

"Can't help you there," said Anne, sighing. "David's group's a gossip-free zone. The only scurrilous thing I hear is the mice in the storage cupboard next to my desk."

"Think that's scurrying, but we get what you mean," Janelle said.

Michelle took another sip of her drink. "No new gossip from Martha's group that I know of. If she's having kittens, I haven't noticed. Floor's been really quiet since Ian left."

" _Blissfully_ quiet," Lena added.

Eloise snickered. "You're not missing his charming manners and witty repartee, then?"

Lena snorted. "That's like asking someone if they miss having an STD."

"I still can't believe they fired him," Anne said.

"We don't know for sure they did," Michelle warned, trying to put what Martha had mentioned back at the Gellers' party aside. Ian's behaviour might have been annoying enough to be 'noticed', but that didn't mean she should jump to conclusions. "The announcement didn't say he was terminated with cause, so it might have been a performance issue. There are clauses in all of our contracts. The firm's allowed to show us the door if it thinks we're not performing as well as we could."

Eloise swirled her soda and lime. "He'd get severance if he was terminated without cause, right?"

"And maybe even if he was terminated _with_ cause as well," Lena said. "A lot of companies won't run the risk of being sued for unfair dismissal and having to prove their case. They know it's usually cheaper and simpler to just pay people to go away."

"Plus, if you let them go without cause, you can offer them more than the minimum severance pay, but make it conditional on them signing some kind of leaving agreement," Anne added. "That's usually where they put in stuff like a no-sue or gagging order."

Michelle sighed. "And if anyone needs to be gagged, it's Ian."

"Enough about Ian," Lena announced, making a cutting motion with her hand. "This is our girl time. I'm not gonna waste it talking about people we hate."

"What do you want to talk about, then?" Anne asked. "Politics, religion, philosophy, movies?"

Eloise used her straw to chop up her ice. "You know what _I_ want to talk about?" she said.

"What?" Lena asked.

Eloise grinned. "What Mike and Captain Amazing have been getting up to."

Four pairs of eyes turned on Michelle.

"Don't call him that, please," Michelle pleaded. Kate's nicknames for him were bad enough—she couldn't handle one from her friends as well.

Janelle raised a brow. "You're telling us he's _not_ amazing?"

"He's _extremely_ amazing. But he was never a Captain, so the nickname's not right."

Lena rolled her eyes. "Okay, _Sergeant_ Amazing, then."

Accurate, but not really much better. "What do you want to know?" Michelle asked, hoping the answer wasn't along the lines of 'how long can he last in the sack' or 'how well-endowed is he'.

"Everything," Eloise said. "I haven't been on a decent date for _months_ , so I'm reduced to living vicariously through you."

"We're not really getting up to anything interesting right now," Michelle said. "Just doing all the usual, new couple things." Going for walks, making dinner, watching movies on the couch, having an almost _illegal_ amount of sex. At the rate they were going, they would have to start buying their condoms in bulk…

"All the usual, new couple things," Lena muttered into her drink. "Like, we don't know _exactly_ what that means."

Eloise leaned in to Lena to whisper, "Surprised she's even able to walk."

"How long have the two of you been dating now?" Anne asked. "For real, I mean?"

Michelle counted back in her head. "Four weeks today exactly."

"And remind all of us again, who was it who set the two of you up?" a smug-looking Janelle chipped in.

"Which is why I'm buying lunch," Michelle said. "To say 'thank you' for your help."

Lena huffed. "So, what, the rest of us are just chopped liver?" She gestured from Anne to Eloise to herself. "Don't _we_ get some thanks as well for keeping the whole 'faking it' thing a secret at work?"

Michelle sighed. "I meant I'm buying lunch for _all_ of us, Len. Not just me and Janelle."

"Oh."

"It _was_ gonna be a surprise. Everything today is on me, to say thank you for introducing me to William"—she raised her glass to Janelle—"and for not telling anyone else at work how long we've actually been together." Not that anyone else would care by now, but she appreciated her friends' discretion. The 'rumours' about her relationship being a lie had mostly been Ian's work, with a push from Aaron to help it along. Ian was gone, and Aaron was (rightly) worried he might be next on the list, so he wouldn't have time to come make trouble for her. If the truth came out now, most people would probably shrug, say 'whatever' and go back to their day. "So, order whatever you want. It's all my treat."

A grinning Lena re-opened her menu card.

"I hope you know, we're all _insanely_ jealous," Anne said. "Of you dating William, that is. I missed the party, so I didn't get to meet him, but everyone who did's had nothing but wonderful things to say about him."

"Even Caleb," Lena noted. "Didn't say much, but he told me he thought William seemed like an interesting guy."

From one of Ian's erstwhile attendants, 'interesting' was high praise indeed…

"He's pretty great. I can't complain," Michelle said.

"You seeing him later today?"

Shaking her head made her feel slightly dizzy. The champagne in the mimosa was getting to her; she really needed to eat. "I spent all day yesterday with him, told him I was spending today on other stuff."

"Oh, so we're just 'other stuff' now?" Lena complained.

She punched Lena on the arm. "Don't be an asshole. You know what I mean."

"You guys do anything nice yesterday?" Janelle asked.

"Actually, yeah." Michelle took another sip of her drink, trying to decide what else she wanted to tell them. The whole truth, or just a little bit of the truth? Was telling a little bit of the truth the same as telling a little white lie? She didn't want to lie to anyone anymore, especially not to her friends.

The whole truth it was. "We went to Wilmington for the day."

"Wilmington?" Anne repeated, frowning. "You mean, way down in South Carolina?"

"Not that Wilmington, no. Just the one in Delaware."

That didn't seem to help. "The hell'd you go to _Delaware_ for?" Eloise asked, scrunching her nose in distaste, as if Michelle had just announced she and William had spent the day in a swamp.

A sentiment Lena shared. "Mike, honey, if you think Delaware's a good place to go on a date, we need to have a _serious_ talk."

"We didn't go to Wilmington on a date." She took a deep breath. "We went to Wilmington to see where William used to live with his mom."

Lena's eyes went wide. "He finally answered your questions, didn't he?"

"Some of 'em, yeah."

A frowning Anne raised a hand. "Sorry, but I think I'm missing something here. _What_ questions?"

Lena provided the explanation. "Turns out, our Sergeant Amazing's a little bit of a mystery man. There's a whole bunch of basic stuff Mike still doesn't know about him."

"Like what?" Eloise asked.

Janelle filled her in. "Like, why he speaks fluent Russian, where his mother and father are, and if he has a brother or sister."

Anne was impressed. "He speaks fluent _Russian_?"

" _And_ fluent German," Lena added.

Eloise held up her hands. "Okay, not to be the one with the tinfoil hat in her purse, but this is DC. If _I_ met a guy who spoke fluent Russian, and who wouldn't tell me where his mother and father are, _or_ if he had a brother or sister, _I'd_ be worried he was a spy."

Jesus. Not the stupid spy thing again…

"Didn't you say he's aiming to work at State once he's finished with school?" Janelle asked.

"Yeah?"

Anne finished Janelle's train of thought. "Wouldn't that be a really good place for a spy to go?"

"He's _not_ a spy," Michelle wearily said, suddenly glad she hadn't told her friends about Jim Hutton's CIA offer. "He's just an extremely private person, and he has some minor trust issues. There's a perfectly rational explanation. Stop hearing hooves and thinking zebras, _please_."

Lena winked. "I always go for centaurs, myself."

"When we started dating, William told me he would eventually answer all of my questions, but he wanted to wait until he knew me a little bit better," Michelle explained. "He doesn't like sharing personal information with strangers. I respected that. I told him I was happy to wait."

Anne swirled her drink. "So, yesterday was when he finally decided to trust you."

"Apparently, yes."

"Any particular reason?" Eloise asked.

"He told me it was something he just felt ready to do."'

Janelle said, "And he decided to start by taking you to see his childhood home."

William had only lived in the Delaware house between the ages of ten and eighteen, so it wasn't his 'childhood' home per se, but close enough that it didn't matter. "The house he lived in with his mom, yeah." Would she ever see where he'd lived in West Berlin with his mother, father and brother? Not impossible, but highly unlikely.

"What was it like?" Eloise asked.

"Kinda small, a little bit shabby, but just a plain, old, regular house."

Anne asked, "And where's his mom now?"

The first of the difficult 'whole truth' replies. "In a cemetery, a few miles away from the house."

Janelle, Anne and Lena groaned.

"She's _dead_?" Eloise asked.

"She died in 1990, a month after he turned eighteen, and a few days after he graduated from high school."

"That's _terrible_ ," Anne murmured, brows drawing together. "To lose your mom at such a critical age."

"Did he tell you how she died?" Lena asked.

"He did, but if you don't mind, I'm not gonna go into the details." She remembered the pain in William's eyes as he'd taken her through the whole, tragic tale. "It took him a while to trust me enough to open up, and I don't feel it's my story to tell."

"Did the two of you visit her grave?" Eloise quietly asked.

Michelle shook her head. "He was ready to answer some of my questions, but he wasn't ready for that."

Anne's smile was sympathetic. "Still a bit too personal, right?"

"It's not really the kind of thing you do when you've only been dating a guy for a month. Plus, I'm not good at cemeteries, just being in one's usually enough to make me cry, so I was kind of relieved we didn't."

"But what's his story?" asked Lena, frowning. "I mean, it's _really_ sad that his mom died, but lots of people lose a parent at a young age. It's kinda strange he didn't just tell you his mom was dead when you asked about her. What was he being so secretive about?"

This was the question she'd been dreading; she hadn't come to terms with all of the answers herself. "Not sure I want to go into the details for this part either. Is it okay if I give you guys the cliff notes version instead?"

"Of course," said Janelle.

"Okay, well, here it is." Her friends leaned in. "His mom was an artist, his dad was a writer. His mom was American, his dad was Russian." She saw shock and alarm, but didn't stop. "His parents met in West Berlin in seventy-one. They fell in love, got married, had a couple of kids. Ten years later, they fell out of love, got divorced. William stayed with his mom, she brought him back to the States with her. His father moved to Moscow instead."

Silence.

"Jesus," Lena muttered. "When you said it was complicated, you weren't kidding."

"That's all just so _sad_ ," Anne murmured.

"You said his parents had a couple of kids," Eloise said, going for the tiny details, as always. "So, that means he has a brother or sister, right?"

"A brother," Michelle said, feeling her heart breaking all over again. This had been the worst of William's revelations by far. "And not just a regular brother. An identical twin. Fourteen minutes younger than him."

Lena blinked. "Holy _shit_."

"And where's the twin brother now?" Anne asked.

Now, for the most tragic part. "William doesn't know," she said. "When his parents divorced, his brother went to Moscow with their father. He hasn't seen or spoken to either of them since he was ten."

Lena sighed, propped her elbows on the table and laid her forehead on her palms.

Yup. That was pretty much how she'd felt as well.

"What's his twin brother's name?" Eloise wanted to know.

"Kirill." Michelle said it the American way—the proper Russian pronunciation felt strange.

"And William's had no contact with his father or brother at _all_?" Janelle asked.

"Not since eighty-two, no."

Anne said, "Has he ever thought about trying to get in touch with him?"

"I actually asked about that, was all ready to offer to help, you know how I am with stuff like that"—Lena raised her head to smile—"thought I could maybe put him in touch with some people in Moscow through our International group, but he didn't really give me an answer."

"He's probably too scared," Eloise quietly said. "I know I would be, if that had happened to me."

That was Michelle's suspicion as well. "I think so, yeah. And it's understandable. It's not the easiest thing, to go digging up your family's past." Especially when you had no idea where to start, or what kind of answers the digging might find.

Lena sipped on her drink. "You said his mother was an artist, right?"

"That's right."

"Does that have anything to do with the paintings you said he has on the walls at his place?"

"It does, yeah. Turns out, they're mostly his mom's. The pieces she never sold, that he inherited from her when she died."

"They worth anything?" Anne asked.

He'd done the research, figured out the whole collection was worth sixty to seventy grand. "Yes, but he doesn't care about the monetary value. They're important to him because of who painted them, not because of what he could sell them for."

"She any good?" Janelle asked. "His mom, I mean?"

"Not Monet or van Gogh good, obviously, but pretty good, yeah. He told me she's gained a decent following since she died, and that her stuff sells for pretty good prices. After we went to see the house, he took me to see one of her largest works, it's in a public gallery in Wilmington's art district."

"You like it?" Lena asked.

" _Loved_ it. _Beautiful_ piece." She waved her arms wide. "But _huge_ , at least the size of an office wall."

Eloise asked, "What kind of work is it?"

"A painting. Acrylics, I think the information card said? It's called _Harmony and Light_. An abstract piece, lots of beautiful, swirling colours. Name's appropriate, cus it's the type of art that makes you feel happy and calm just looking at it."

Lena snickered. "Not full of screaming or burning Popes, then."

"Nothing disturbing, no."

The server reappeared. "Hey, there," she said. "You ladies feel like you're ready to order some food?"

The discussion paused as the orders were placed—Michelle opted for the Cali Chicken Club Sandwich herself—but as soon as the server was gone, the questions about William resumed.

"Least now you know why he speaks fluent Russian," Lena pointed out.

"He's _not_ a spy," Michelle said, aiming a humorous look at Eloise. "He just learned it from his father."

Janelle concluded, "And English from his mom, and German from his grandmother."

"Exactly."

"Okay, but I gotta ask, why on _earth_ did his parents split the kids up?" Eloise said, still trying to fill in the gaps between the facts. "If he and his brother were identical twins, wouldn't it have made more sense to keep them together?"

Anne nodded, agreeing. "Splitting them up seems _awfully_ cruel."

Monstrously cruel, in Michelle's opinion. "I asked about that. He told me his mother always refused to talk about it, so he doesn't actually know why his parents did what they did. I, uh, I got the feeling it was a really difficult issue."

"No _shit_ ," Lena said.

"Can't imagine how that would feel," Anne murmured. "To have a brother or sister one day, and not have them the next."

Janelle shook her head. "Separations take time. I doubt it was anywhere _near_ that sudden."

"Apparently, it was," Michelle said, reneging on her decision not to go into too much detail. "He said his father and brother were there in the morning and gone in the evening."

A look of horror spread on Anne's face. "Jesus," she said. "What kind of person does that to their own _child_?"

"And not just to William," Janelle pointed out. "To the younger brother as well. Cus he's probably somewhere in Russia, trying to deal with _his_ trust issues, wondering where the _hell_ his mom and his big brother went."

"It's awful, yeah," Michelle said. "God knows Dan's a pain in the ass, and I don't always have much time or patience for him, but that doesn't mean I don't want him to be in my life." Or, that she wanted him to be dead, which was another possibility she'd considered for Kirill. Almost twenty years had passed—in that time, all manner of things could have happened to William's father or brother.

Eloise said, "Kinda makes you realize why he was so reluctant to talk about it."

"He told me his last girlfriend wasn't very understanding. When he told her about his parents and brother, she basically told him that everyone has problems, that he wasn't special, and he should suck it up."

"What was her name?" Anne asked.

"Tamara," Michelle said. "She works on The Hill, does PR stuff in a Senator's office."

"Sounds like a bitch," Lena muttered.

"From the little William told me, I get the feeling she was pretty hard work."

"You're _much_ nicer," said Anne, reaching out to squeeze her hand.

"I like to think so, yeah."

"So, you know what happened to his parents, you know what happened to his brother, you know why he was born in Berlin, you know why he moved to the States, and you know why he speaks fluent Russian," Eloise summarized, counting the items off on her fingers. "Sounds like he answered all your questions."

"What about his name?" Anne said. "Didn't you tell us Cooper's his mother's family name?"

She'd forgotten all about that. "It is, yeah."

"So, it's probably not the name he was born with?" Janelle asked.

Michelle shook her head. "He had his father's surname when he was born." But they didn't need to know what it was. "His mother changed his name to Cooper when they moved to the States."

"And you said they moved here when he was ten?"

"In eighty-two, yeah."

"So, when the Cold War was still a thing." Janelle shrugged. "That makes sense."

"That's pretty much what he said as well. Said he got bullied a lot at school because he had a Russian name." And apparently, also because he'd been a bit on the chubby side, which she had a hard time imagining, given how trim and fit he was now.

"So, now you know the whole truth, how do you feel?" Eloise asked.

"About what?"

"About him. You gonna keep dating him?"

Lena answered for her. "A guy _that_ good-looking and _that_ good in bed, you bet your partnership equity stake she is."

Anne seemed troubled. "It doesn't bother you that he basically has no family left?"

"Not at all. It's not like it's William's fault. And he _does_ have family, an aunt out in San Diego, his mother's younger sister, plus a couple of cousins, but he hasn't seen any of them in years." She didn't say why—the rupture between nephew and aunt was another depressing story…

Eloise finished her drink. "How do you think your parents will feel, when they find out you're dating a guy who's basically a penniless, half-Russian orphan?"

"He's not penniless," Michelle said.

That made Lena sit up straight. "So, he's got money?"

"Not much, but a little bit, yeah. Mostly what he inherited from his mom, but also what he earned in the Corps." She'd been surprised to discover how much of his meagre wages he'd saved—he hadn't blown it all on women or booze, or at the very least, on the contents of the local pastry shop. "He's not rich, but between his savings and what the government's giving him because he used to be in the Corps, he's been able to pay his SFS fees without taking out loans."

"I'm jealous," Lena said. "Between my undergrad and Law School, I still have thirty grand to pay off."

"So, he's not penniless, and you could _maybe_ argue he's not an orphan, since his mom didn't die until he was a legal adult, but he _definitely_ has a Russian branch in his family tree," Eloise said.

Michelle sighed. "And my dad won't appreciate that."

"You mean the man who used to stand up in the Connecticut Senate back in the mid-eighties, and tell anyone who would listen that the only good commie was a dead commie?" Lena asked. " _That_ man won't like your hot, new, half-Russian boyfriend? I'm _shocked_."

Anne giggled into her drink.

"Does William know what your dad's like?" Janelle asked.

"I've told him my dad's hard work, but other than that, not really, no."

Eloise grinned. "He's not the only one keeping family secrets, huh?"

"I'm not keeping secrets. I just don't want to scare him off. And it's not like it's gonna affect him. I see my parents maybe three times a year."

"What do you think she'll make of him?" Anne asked.

"I think she'll like him," Michelle said. "She won't care about the half-Russian thing." If anything, her mom might think it was dangerous and slightly exotic…

"Lemme guess. Cus he's a nice, polite, Catholic boy, right?" said Lena, smirking.

"And because he holds his knife and fork the European way. You know how much she loves a man with good manners."

Lena winked. "Just don't tell her you slept with him on the first date."

Anne choked on her drink. "I'm sorry, you _what_?"

"She slept with him on the first date," Lena explained. "Took him out for dinner at Niko's, went back to his place with him, had his perfect ass for dessert."

"Okay, and whatever happened to taking your time?" Anne said.

Janelle said, "You'd understand if you'd met him. You wouldn't have wanted to take your time either. Trust me."

Lena leaned in front of Michelle to whisper, "You'd have climbed him like a goddamn tree."

Which was more or less what Michelle had actually done. "In my defense, it was warm, I'd had two large glasses of wine, I was wearing my nicest lingerie set, I hadn't had sex in almost nine months"—she leaned over the table to whisper—"and I think I was ovulating."

Janelle snickered into her drink. "So, your body was basically telling you to breed with everything in sight."

"Exactly."

"Do your folks know you're dating again?" Eloise asked.

"Not yet, no. So far, Kate's the only family member who knows."

Eloise finished her drink. "So, it'll be a while before you have to worry about your parents and William meeting each other."

"Was thinking I'd tell them by the start of November." If only so she could take him to her parents' over Thanksgiving instead of leaving him in DC to spend the day on his own. "That's still a couple of months away, so plenty of time to figure things out. But I'm gonna introduce him to Kate next week. She's coming to stay with me for the holiday weekend. I'll invite him over on Saturday night, make dinner for us, let the two of them meet." Then, if everything went well, William would have someone else on his 'side' through the pain of any McNally family dinner he later attended.

"You think he's ready for Hurricane Kate?" Janelle asked, grinning.

"I've already warned him what she's like, so I think so, yeah."

"He used to be a Marine," Eloise pointed out. "Pretty sure he's dealt with people much scarier than your sister."

"Have you ever _met_ her sister?" Lena wrily asked.

Anne frowned and stirred her drink. "You're, uh, you're not worried it's a little too soon to introduce them?"

"Not really, no." Michelle looked around, feeling alarmed as she saw doubt and concern on her friends' faces. "Why? Do you guys think it's too soon?"

"By next weekend, it'll only have been five weeks," Anne said. She wrinkled her nose. "That's… a _little_ bit early, in my books?"

"I just want them to meet. I want to know they like each other. I'll be a little upset if they don't." More than a little—she would probably be devastated. Kate was her sister, and one of the people she cared about most in the world, but William Cooper was rapidly becoming another. If the two of them didn't get on, what the _hell_ would she do? "I'm sure it'll all be fine," she said, trying to persuade herself as much as her friends.

"Oh, girl," Eloise murmured, brows furrowing in concern. "You've got it _bad_."

"Got _what_ bad?"

Eloise smiled, and reached out to lay her hand on Michelle's. "Mike, honey, you're in _love_."

"Completely," Anne added.

"Hopelessly," said Lena.

Michelle wasn't sure she would disagree. "It's not a bad thing, though. Right?"

Janelle shook her head. "Course it isn't."

"We just don't want you to get hurt," said Eloise, squeezing her hand. "We all think you're a pretty amazing person. We just want you to fall in love with someone who feels the same way about you, and who deserves to have you."

"William _does_ deserve to have me. He's a _really_ great guy. Trust me, okay?"

"You sure?" Lena asked.

As firmly as she could, Michelle said, "I've never been more sure of anything in my life." She looked to Janelle. "Remember what you told me back in July, on the day William and I first met? How he tipped well, never complained and was always really polite?" Then, to Lena. "And what _you_ told me back at the party, that he was a seriously fine piece of man?" She threw up her hands. "I mean, even Martha loved him, for Christ's sake."

Eloise sat back in her chair. "Say no more. If Martha loves him, _I'm_ convinced."

"You think he's the one, don't you?" Anne said, smiling softly.

"The one what?" Michelle asked.

Lena rolled her eyes. "The _one_ , dummy," she thundered. "The guy you're gonna marry."

Would it scare them if she told them she did? Would they isolate her in her condo, wait for Kate to come into town and hold some kind of intervention? "We've only been dating for a month. I'm not marrying anyone."

" _Yet_ ," Eloise added.

"You can't fool us, McNally," Lena warned. "We know you too well. We all know how bad you've got it."

"I'm not trying to fool anyone. I know _exactly_ how bad I've got it." Just this morning, she'd woken at seven as usual, then lain in bed for twenty more minutes, just to watch William sleep. "But having it bad doesn't mean I'm ready to think about weddings and babies. That's a _whole_ 'nother kettle of fish."

"Okay, but here's a question for you," Eloise said.

"Shoot."

"Let's say you take him to your parents for Thanksgiving."

"Uh huh?"

"And while you're there, he takes you out for a walk, tells you he loves you and wants to spend the rest of his life with you, gets down on one knee and brings out a ring."

"Don't be ridiculous. He's not going to do that."

Lena huffed. "But if he _did_ , what would you say?"

She paused to think. But there wasn't much to think about, really. She already knew _exactly_ what she would say. She would throw her arms around his neck, hug him tight and cover his face in kisses, all while screaming yes, yes, yes. And then she would drag him into some bushes, strip him out of his pants and ravage him into an early death…

Lena sat back, grinning. "Hopeless, like I just said."

"It's _so_ romantic," Anne said.

Janelle scrunched her face. "You thought the Coppola _Dracula_ movie was romantic."

Anne huffed. "That movie was a love story first. The horror stuff was just an add-on."

Eloise squashed Janelle's retort. "You think William feels the same way?"

"I think so, yeah. He's told me several times how much he likes me, and he always seems happy to see me."

" _And_ he calls you at work every day," Lena noted.

Anne heaved an envious sigh. "What I wouldn't give to find a nice guy like that. I swear, most of the men I meet think telling me they like me is a violation of the Official Secrets Act."

"Does he know about the family money?" Eloise asked.

Michelle shook her head. "Not yet." But she would tell him, and soon, if only to keep her side of the deal. He'd shared his family secrets with her, she felt honour-bound to share her family secrets with him.

Eloise concluded, "So, you know he's not pretending to like you just because you're rich."

" _I'm_ not rich. My grandfather's rich. Whole different thing."

"Has he told you he loves you?" Anne asked.

"Who, my grandfather?"

Lena huffed. "William, dummy."

"No, but I'm not surprised, cus that's a _really_ serious thing to say. _I'm_ not ready to say it to him."

"But you would say 'yes' if he proposed?" Anne asked.

"I just…" Her head started to pound. "It's complicated, okay? Sometimes, I don't understand what I feel. Or if I'm even supposed to feel what I feel. I _know_ it's only been four weeks, and it's honestly a little bit scary how much I enjoy being with him, and how much I miss him when we're apart."

"You don't _love_ him, but you're _in love_ with him."

Thank you, Janelle. "Exactly."

"You're gonna invite us to the wedding, right?" asked Anne, grinning.

Michelle held up her hands. "Okay, all of you, stop right there and back the _hell_ up. I like him, and he makes me happy, and yes, I think I'm in love with him, but there's no wedding coming anytime soon."

As always, Eloise was the sensible one. "You gotta wait for him to finish school and find a job first."

"Never mind that," Lena said. "She's gotta wait for her mom to find a venue big enough for all the guests she'll wanna invite."

Anne snickered. "She'll have been planning it since Mike turned eighteen."

"She'll have been planning it since Mike was _born_ ," Lena said.

Michelle laid her head in her hands. "Please stop talking," she pleaded, feeling her heart pounding again. "It's making me anxious just thinking about it."

Janelle raised a brow. "You telling me you've never thought about what kind of wedding you want?"

"I'll admit to having given it an _occasional_ thought." And most of those thoughts had been only about what kind of dress she would wear. "But what I want and what my mother wants are two _very_ different things."

"If and when I meet the right guy, we're just gonna elope, spend the money on something useful," the ever-practical Eloise said.

Lena asked, "You told your parents that?"

"Yeah, and they're totally okay with it. They did the whole event wedding thing, wished after that they hadn't, they told me they won't mind if I do my own thing."

"Might not be that simple," Janelle said. "The guy'll have parents as well, remember?"

Lena poked Michelle on the arm. "There's another way you're getting off easy. You'll never have in-laws to worry about."

"Jesus, Lena," Anne said with a horrified look. "Could you just occasionally _not_ say what you're thinking?"

Lena made a good point, and a point Michelle hadn't thought about until now. William had no mother or father to get in the way of them making their relationship whatever they wanted. They would never need to compromise, or tread softly with their decisions, just to keep his parents happy. But there were downsides as well. If they got married, his side of the church would be almost empty. Their kids would only have a single set of grandparents, and only one uncle and aunt. Actually, only an aunt, given how uninterested her younger brother would probably be.

Okay, why in the _hell_ was she thinking about weddings and kids? She drained the rest of her mimosa, waved to attract the server's attention, held up her empty glass and smiled, politely letting the young woman know she wanted a second.

"Uh oh," Lena joked. "She's having a second. I think we broke her."

"You didn't break anything," Michelle lied. "I'm fine. I just want another mimosa." And maybe, after she'd eaten, a third. It was all so confusing. Was she _in love_ with William, or did she _love_ him? Was she mistaking lust for love? Would she have the same feelings for him once the boning like bunnies phase was done?

"So, when are you gonna tell him about the family money?" Eloise asked.

"Before Kate comes into town. If I don't tell him, she'd have to keep quiet about it as well, and it wouldn't be fair to put that on her." Especially since Kate was the kind of person who would accidentally say the one thing she'd been warned not to say.

Eloise asked, "How do you think he'll react?"

"Not sure. But I'm hoping he won't really care."

"As long as he doesn't _accidentally_ leave a Rolex brochure on your coffee table," said Lena, grinning.

Janelle grimaced. "Please tell me that wasn't something someone _actually_ did."

"Nathaniel." By far the least favourite of her ex-boyfriends.

"Don't remember him," Anne said.

"He was the guy I dated in law school, so was back before we knew each other. When he found out my family had money, he pretty much tried to turn me into his ATM."

"And you don't think William will?" Eloise asked.

"He just doesn't seem like a 'things' guy. I mean, he talks about how he'd like to have a nice car, and a plasma TV, but in a vague way, like it's something he'll do at some point in the future once he has a job. He still wears the watch his grandparents gave him for his eighteenth birthday, and he only owns three pairs of shoes."

"You're gonna fix that for him, right?" said Lena.

It was only August, but she already had some ideas. "Santa might bring him a nice pair of Magnannis for Christmas, yes." And maybe a nice suit as well. She wouldn't allow him to turn her into his ATM, but that didn't mean she wouldn't spoil him as and when the mood took her.

"Consider it career support," Janelle said. "He'll need them for his interview round in the spring."

"Exactly."

Eloise asked, "You think you'll still be together by then?"

"Yes," Michelle said, this time, without so much as a moment's hesitation.

And not just in the spring. She wouldn't say it, not right now, not even to four of her closest friends, not even to Kate when she came to visit next week, but she was pretty sure she and William Cooper were now a done deal, and the two of them would be together for the rest of their lives.

Now, where the hell was that second mimosa?


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten years on, Michelle and William reflect on their time together, and how much has happened in their lives since they met. 
> 
> Kirill appears in this one.

**Tuesday July 19th, 2011**

The counter was in a different place, all the furniture had changed, the floor was wood instead of tile and the walls were a lighter shade of green, but underneath, it was still their former lunchtime haunt.

Michelle leaned out to check the add-on space at the side. To her surprise, the table right at the far end was free. She turned to William, tugging his sleeve to point it out. "No prizes for guessing what table we're taking."

"You sure?" he asked. He gestured at the far wall. "Cus there's a booth over there we could sit at instead. Would be more private than a table."

"Not a chance. If we're doing this, we're doing it right."

He waved her forward. "Lead the way. I'm on your six."

Just as he had been for the last ten years…

At the table, jackets came off and were draped around chairs; she pulled out the outside seat, leaving William to claim the inside one at the wall. He grabbed two menus on the way down, opened both and handed one to her. "What're the chances they'll have the same dishes?"

Michelle perused the menu. The contents had kept up with the times—lots of organic, vegan and gluten-free options—but the old familiars were still there as well. She smiled as she found her choice, tapping her finger on the card. "They've got mine, so I'm good to go."

"And look at that, they have mine as well." He folded his menu over, gestured for her to give him hers, combined them and reached up to stick them back in the rack. "I'll go up and order for us. What do you want to drink?"

"The usual."

"Anything in particular?"

"I trust you. You know what I like."

William pushed up from his chair, pulling his wallet out of his pocket. "Anything else?"

"That's all for now. We can order a dessert course after."

While he was gone, she scanned the café. It was reasonably busy, with maybe half of the table in use—not bad for almost seven o'clock on a Tuesday night in July. And at least it was actually here, unlike Niko's and The Nash, both of which had long since closed, victims of the financial downturn a few years before. One thing she noticed—the café seemed to be catering to a much younger crowd. Or, maybe Otto's customer base had always skewed that way, and she'd simply never noticed before, because she'd been in that younger age group herself.

She couldn't believe they were both turning forty this year. Where the _hell_ had the last decade gone?

William returned, carrying a bottle of beer and a glass of white wine. "Food's ordered. Got you the South African sauv," he said, setting the wine glass down on her coaster. "Figured you'd rather have that than the Pinot Blanc."

"Perfect, thank you." It was one of the things she loved about him—how much attention he paid to the details. He didn't always remember where he'd left his keys, or if he'd locked the garage door, but she could send him out to buy stuff for her—wine, spices, flowers, fruit, hell, underwear and tampons as well—and he would always come home with the right thing. "What'd you get?" she asked, pointing at his own drink.

He turned the bottle to show it to her. Zywiec, the label read. "Kirill got me started on it. It's Polish. Gives me a headache if I have more than two, but it's pretty good."

"Kirill drinking a Polish beer? I’m _shocked_."

"The real shock'll come if he ever starts drinking American brands."

Phrases involving hell and snowballs sprang to mind…

"Wonder how he's doing with the kids?" she asked.

"Sure he's fine. We told him we'd be home by nine. Tania'll go to bed at eight, Drusha'll have his nose in a book or a Lego set all night. They won't give him any trouble."

"Okay, but if we get home, and the house is on fire, or there's a police car sitting in the driveway, it's _your_ fault, not mine." She wouldn't worry so much if Kate was helping him out, but her sister was working a late shift tonight, so Kirill was watching the kids on his own.

"He's a thirty-nine year old man who served twelve years in the military. He's perfectly capable of looking after a seven-year-old and a nine-year-old for a couple of hours. Relax."

She took a sip of her wine. "Thirty-nine," she murmured. "Was just thinking, when the _hell_ did that happen?"

"Kinda terrifying, isn't it?" He reached out to lay his hand over hers. "I swear, it feels like just yesterday we met."

"Ten years to the day since we sat at this table."

He pulled her hand to his lips to kiss it. "Ten amazing years."

"No regrets?"

"Nope."

"Not even one?"

He paused to think. "If I could do it again, I would maybe tell your father I wanted to marry you _before_ I proposed, instead of after, cus I know the whole 'not asking permission' thing kinda put his nose out of joint." He turned her hand to kiss her palm. "Other than that, no, I wouldn't change a thing."

"Not even the timing with Andrew?" she asked, remembering how much chaos and disorder their son's unplanned arrival had caused.

He sat back, swirling his drink. "Not even that. I mean, it wasn't ideal, gave us a stressful couple of months, but it also gave us a good excuse to just get married down at the Courts, avoid that whole overcooked wedding your mother was planning." He raised his bottle to take a swig. "What about you? You have any regrets? Anything you would've done differently, if you could?"

She sipped on her own drink. "Sometimes, I regret having to leave Wilson, Cruz and Geller so soon after making partner. I know Martha was disappointed. Maybe a little angry as well. She pushed for me to get the promotion, defended me when I took time off to have Andrew, and then I turned round and left at the end of the year."

William grimaced. "That was my fault. Sorry."

"Not really. Going to Moscow was my decision as much as yours."

"I know. But I still feel bad about the way it all happened."

"Don't. Even if we hadn't gone, I'm not sure I would've stayed with the firm. By the time I resigned, I was already under so much pressure, trying to keep up my billable hours, but still be at home with Andrew as well. I know it sounds like a betrayal of feminism and women to say it, but having him made me realize that making partner at my law firm wasn't the most important thing I could do. Your posting gave me an easy way out. And the fact I didn't immediately move to another job at another firm made them more cooperative when it came to repaying my capital contributions."

"Never thought about it like that."

A silly question—one she'd always wanted to ask him—popped up in the back of her brain. "Will?

"What?"

"Can I ask you a rather peculiar question?"

"Anything, yeah."

"Anything? You sure?"

"Okay, anything that doesn't need a government security clearance to answer."

"You ever think about where we might be now if we _hadn't_ met? If I'd come in here after you'd left, or if there had been a free table at the other side of the room, or if Janelle hadn't pointed you out, or if there had been another free seat, and I'd shared a table with someone else instead of you?"

He shook his head. "Never."

"Not even once?"

"When I say never, I mean never. What the hell would be the point? I would only do that if I regretted how my life had turned out, or if I thought my life was missing something." He reached out to cup her face with his hand, running his thumb along her cheek. "But I don't, and it isn't. I love what I have, and I have everything I could ever want."

"Except a Ferrari." Which he'd half-jokingly mentioned to her last month…

"It _is_ my fortieth birthday next year. _And_ our tenth wedding anniversary." He winked as he sat back. "You're very good at spoiling people, so feel free to spoil me as much as you want."

"Honey, as much as I love using the family money to spoil you, I'm gonna warn you now, there's more chance of you being chosen as the next Pope than there is of me buying you a Ferrari." She would maybe stretch to a high-end LCD TV, or a custom Zegna suit, but a fancy, expensive, imported car? Not a goddamn chance.

"I can't become Pope. I've had too much sex."

"Pretty sure some previous Popes have had even more."

"Don't let your mother hear you say that," he warned. "You know how puckered she gets about the Catholic stuff. She _still_ isn't over the fact you slept with me before we got married."

As Andrew's birth had so damningly proved. "What can I say? I obviously live to disappoint her."

He gestured for her to meet him over the table. "Just so you know, you're not disappointing me." He pressed a lingering kiss to her lips and moved his mouth to her ear to murmur, "I get just as hard looking at you now as I did the day we first met."

Jesus. It was like dealing with a thirty-year-old all over again. And as she recalled, he hadn't done that until their _second_ meeting. "Mister Cooper, can I remind you, you're a CIA department head, and supposedly a respectable, married father of two?" she murmured. "Control yourself, please."

"What if I don't want to?"

"We're here to have _dinner_ , not each other." She pressed a finger to his lips. "Just hold that thought for later, okay?"

His eyes took on a feral glint. "I'm gonna fuck you on the rug first."

"Did you not hear what I just said?"

"The one in the basement, though. The one in the bedroom's larger and softer, but we don't want to wake up the kids."

"I said _later_ , Sergeant. So, please, be quiet."

He sat back, grinning, looking thoroughly unashamed of himself.

He was being an ass, but it was hard to be angry with him. Her husband was telling her he still desired her, and what mother of two on the verge of hitting the big four-oh didn't want to hear that? Even if the delivery method was slightly obnoxious.

"Here's to ten amazing years together," she said, raising her wine to toasting height.

He chimed his bottle against her glass. "Can't wait to see what the next ten bring."

"No more kids," she warned. "Cus I'm done with the babies thing."

"No argument there. Two's enough for me as well."

"And no more long-lost Russian twin brothers suddenly coming back from the dead," she added.

He held up deflecting hands. "I promise, that I know of, I only have one."

"Not that I minded, but it _was_ quite a shock."

"That's one way to put it."

Something about his answer made her pause. "A _good_ shock, though, right? You're not lying awake at night wishing you had your old life back, and that Kirill had never been found?"

"Course not. Was the best shock I've ever had." He let out a sigh. "Was just a hard one to deal with as well."

"Harder than me telling you I was pregnant with Andrew?"

He smiled softly. "Now you mention it, about the same. Was the same problem, though, when you think about it."

"How's that?"

"Cus both situations were about someone suddenly coming into my life. A brother in one, a son in the other." His soft smile became a full grin. "At least you didn't spend fourteen hours in labour with Kirill."

"Eighteen."

"Sorry?"

"I was in labour with Andrew for _eighteen_ hours, not fourteen."

He frowned. "Really? I don't remember it being that long."

"Honey, you don't remember _anything_ about Drusha being born. You spent most of it trying not to have a panic attack. At one point, the doctor asked me if I wanted him to give you some Xanax."

"I'm man enough to admit, it wasn't my finest hour."

"Thank you." She grabbed her cutlery set to tear the paper binder away. "And I didn't have to give birth to Kirill, but his reappearance has been just as painful in other ways."

For all of them, but Will most of all. She'd only had to deal with relatively solvable, easy, everyday problems—making sure Kirill had somewhere to live, feeding him, clothing him, covering his medical and living expenses, helping him with everything from how to request a library card to how to use the transit system. William had backed her up in all of those tasks, all while dealing with an array of emotional issues as well—getting to know Kirill all over again, finding out what kind of man his twin brother was, figuring out if they could trust him and if they should let him into their children's lives. Then, later, once the initial estrangement had passed, worrying about what might happen, if the DoJ ruling was going to go bad and he would lose Kirill all over again. Not to mention coming to terms with what had happened to their parents, and the truth of who their father had been. That one revelation alone had inflicted an emotional wound she wasn't sure would ever heal.

He sighed again. "It has been, yeah."

"I remember the night you told me all about him. Kirill, I mean." And his mother and father as well. "Still can't believe he isn't dead, and that he's _actually_ here. It's like something out of a Virginia Andrews novel."

"Was certainly a bit dramatic."

"You think you'll ever be able to tell me the full story?" she said. "Of how and why Kirill ended up in the States, I mean?" He'd told her what he could—something about an FSB operation gone wrong, Kirill injured and facing death, and a CIA guy who'd once worked with at Langley with Will being in the right place at the right time—but she knew it was an unfinished tale.

"You know I can't," he said. "It's all heavily classified information."

"Now, yes. But it won't be heavily classified forever, surely?"

"Actually, given the people and information involved, yeah, it probably will."

She sighed. "Then, I guess I accept it for what it is."

"You know I would tell you if I could." He leaned forward, frowning. "You trust me, right?"

"Of course I do. But you know how my brain works. When I'm trying to solve a problem, I like to have all the facts."

"Is there anything about the situation that's still a big problem? I mean, other than Kirill's general behaviour, cus I'm not sure we can ever solve _that_."

She grinned. "Nothing in particular. Just this weird sense sometimes, of things not being totally real? Like, I have to keep reminding myself it's _not_ something out of a Virginia Andrews novel."

He sat back, expression sombre, picking at the label on his beer bottle. "I have dreams sometimes where I can't find him, and nobody knows who he is."

"Kirill?"

He nodded. "You don't remember him, the kids don't remember him, the CIA has never heard of him, someone's living in his apartment and using his office at work." Voice dropping to a murmur, he added, "I keep telling people he's supposed to be alive, but nobody ever believes me. They just laugh, and tell me I'm wrong, and that I don't have a twin brother."

She wanted to hug him. "It was just a dream, honey," she said, ducking her head to catch his gaze. "It's just your mind's way of working through some unresolved fears. You spent almost twenty years thinking you _didn't_ have a twin brother, for one reason or another. It's perfectly understandable that some deep, dark part of your brain still isn't convinced. But there's nothing to worry about. When you wake up, he _is_ always here. And he _will_ always be here. He's alive, and he's safe, and nothing's _ever_ going to happen to him." Not if she had anything to say about it.

"I know." He showed a ghost of a smile. "And it could be worse. At least in the dream, I'm never turning up at work naked."

She sat back, groaning. "You wouldn't _believe_ how often that happens to me. It's always just the bottom half, though. Like dream me figured out how to put on a bra and shirt, but not panties or a skirt. It's really bizarre."

He smiled. "Just a pity we can't record dreams. Cus I'd pay really good money to see a video clip of _that_."

"You hush."

He grabbed his own cutlery set to unwrap it. "And was that the night we broke my coffee table?"

"Sorry?"

"The night I told you all about my parents and Kirill. Didn't we, you know, get a bit _physical_ after?"

"No, you're thinking about the night after the party at the Geller place." When things had gotten so intense, the poor, abused coffee table had given out while they were having sex on it, leaving them in a giggling, sweating pile on the floor. "You didn't tell me about your parents and Kirill for another few weeks."

"I don't really remember that party."

"Probably because of what I did to you after." She leaned forward to whisper, "By the time I was finished, I don't think you had any brains left in your skull to remember stuff with."

"Right, yeah, you, uh, put me through an _oral exam_ , if I recall correctly."

"An extremely stringent one, yes."

" _That_ part, I remember." He let out a contented sigh, then grabbed his beer to take a quick drink. "And now I remember telling you about Kirill. Was a month or so later, right?""

"Near the end of August, yeah. We went to Wilmington for the day, you took me to see the old house, then to see _Harmony and Light_. When we got back to your place, we cracked the wine, and you took me through your family photos."

"I was so nervous," he admitted. "Was terrified you were gonna think I was some orphan loser nobody loved."

"You _were_ an orphan loser nobody loved."

"Hey!"

"Except me. _I_ loved you."

"What, even then?"

"Maybe not the first two times we met for lunch here, but within a few weeks, yeah." She shrugged and smiled. "What can I say? I was always a sucker for a hard luck case."

"Makes two of us."

"When was I _ever_ a hard luck case?"

"Uh, how about when you told Ian you had a boyfriend, then had to _beg_ me to be your fake date?"

Her cheeks flushed; she squirmed in her seat. "Let's not talk about that. Been almost ten years, and I'm _still_ embarrassed."

"Don't see why. I married you, and we're still together, so it's not like it scared me away."

"It was stupid, and wrong. I should never have lied. I should have found another way to deal with the problem."

"Maybe, but if you had, would we even have started dating?"

The thought of giving Ian even the tiniest credit for their marriage made her want to be sick. "For the sake of my sanity, I'm going to believe we'd have bumped into each other again." She tapped the table. "We were both coming here at least once a week. By the time I came back to find you, we'd already spent one lunch hour together, knew we kind of liked each other, so it was just a question of probability and time."

"My wife, independent counsel by day, theoretical statistician by night."

"You know what I can _definitely_ predict, with a probability of one hundred percent?"

"What's that?"

She leaned over to murmur, "That you're gonna _love_ how I treated myself today."

A spark of interest lit in his eyes. "Oh, yeah? What'd you buy?"

She flicked her hair away from her neck and allowed the line of her dress to slip, revealing a tiny hint of a delicate, lace-covered strap. "Oh, just a little something I found on the sale rack at Coup de Foudre," she said as casually as he could. That 'little something' being a wine-red, lace and satin underwear set. He was going to lose his goddamn _mind_ when he saw it.

His eyes wandered over her chest, then further down, no doubt trying to imagine what she was wearing. "Did this 'little something' come in one or two pieces?"

"Three."

He swallowed.

Oh, yeah. He knew what that number meant. She just wished the garters weren't so scratchy against her thighs.

"Am I allowed to tear it off you?" he asked.

"Absolutely not."

"Not even if I say please?"

"Do you have _any_ idea how expensive Coup de Foudre is? Even in the sale?" Not that she couldn't afford it, but it was the principal of the thing.

"I'll buy you another one."

"I don't want you to buy me another one. I want you to let me wear the one I already bought for more than a single goddamn night."

"I'll tear it carefully."

"No!"

"You're no fun," he huffed.

"You won't be saying that later tonight."

"Is that a promise, or a threat?"

She pretended to think. "Hmm, maybe a bit of both?"

"So, should I be scared, or aroused?"

"Honey, we talked about this. No being aroused when we're out in public, _please_."

A server arrived, holding two plates. "Hey, folks, I have a Sauerkraut Casserole and a Cobb Salad. Who's having what?"

"The salad's mine, and the casserole's his," Michelle explained, pointing from herself to her spouse.

The server swapped the plates over and set them down. "You guys need anything else?" he asked.

"Not with the food, no," William said. "But we haven't been here for a few years, so was just curious, is Otto still running the joint?"

The server shook his head. "He retired a couple of years ago. But his older daughter took over from him. She's the one who expanded the menu, but she learned how to cook from her dad, so we still serve all the traditional German dishes as well."

"Does she still make the Herrentorte from scratch?"

The server nodded. "One of our best sellers. We just made a fresh one this morning." He grinned. "We do a dairy-free version now as well."

"Good to know, thanks."

"No problem." The server gestured at the counter. "You need anything, I'm up at the till. Enjoy your dinner," he said and walked away.

"That solves the problem of what we're gonna have for dessert," said William.

Assuming she had any room for it; she didn't remember the Cobb Salad being so large. But she'd only ever come here for lunch—maybe this was the dinner portion.

She smiled as she noticed the separate tub of vinaigrette dressing, nestled at the side of the plate.

William's eyes followed hers. "I remembered that. And I got you extra blue cheese as well."

He really was as good as men got…

For the next few minutes, they simply ate, her working her way through her lettuce, bacon and chicken, him tackling an equally generous serving of sausage, cabbage and noodles. There was no awkwardness between them, no attempt to fill the silence with trivia or meaningless words. As always, they were happy just to be with each other.

He pointed his fork at her meal. "How's your food?"

"It's good. But it's just a Cobb Salad. Kinda hard to mess it up." She tapped her fork on his plate. "How's the casserole?" she asked. "Still the second best in town?"

"It's pretty good, yeah." He sighed as he scooped up a forkful of cabbage. "Not sure I can even remember the taste of my Oma's now. Been so long since I last had it."

"But you remember that it tasted good, and that she made it with a grandmother's love. That's what really matters."

"I guess so, yeah."

"You think your Oma would approve of how we've spent the last ten years?"

He turned his hand back and forth. "Probably not the making a baby before we got married part. She was a little bit old-fashioned that way. _Or_ the moving to Moscow part." He winced. " _Or_ the working for the CIA part."

"We'd've been a regular pile of disappointment, huh?"

"She would've loved the kids. And you. And your career." He smirked. "And that you're rich."

"I'm _not_ rich."

"But your family is. Or, your father's company is. Wherever it comes from."

"Here's another question for you."

"Shoot."

"If she was still alive, what do you think your Oma would make of Kirill?"

That made him stop to think. "She'd love him, want to take care of him, maybe spoil him a little bit, probably try to fatten him up."

"He _is_ a bit skinny."

"Always was." He stabbed another piece of sausage. "But she never had much of a tolerance for bullshit, so I'm pretty sure she'd give him a week, then threaten to whip his sorry, obstinate, Russian ass from end of The Mall to the other."

"Am I allowed to tell you that sometimes, I want to do that as well?"

His mouth cracked into a grin. "He, uh, he has his caveman moments. But he's getting better. We're civilizing him, slowly but surely. And so is Kate."

"Not always so sure about that. There are times when I think she actually makes him worse."

"A little bit, maybe. Just means they're a good match. They'll figure it out."

"Just worries me sometimes, what might happen if it all goes wrong."

"With Kirill and Kate?"

She nodded. "Kate's my sister, Kirill's your brother. I'd never be willing to turn my back on her, you'd never be willing to turn your back on him." She picked up her dressing to pour it over her lettuce. "If it goes wrong, and they break up, and it's bad, it would put us in a _hell_ of a bind. I don't want to end up in a situation where I have to choose between you and Kate. And I don't think you want to end up in a situation where you have to choose between me and Kirill."

His fork froze halfway to his mouth. "Why do you think I would have to choose?"

"Sorry?"

Sighing, he set the fork down. "Kirill's important to me, but so are you. I love him, and I love having him back in my life, but that doesn't mean I'm willing to put my marriage on the line for him. If he ever behaves in a way that means I have to choose between him and you, which would have to be something pretty terrible when you think about it, I already know what answer I'm giving."

"You'd choose me and the kids over him?"

He blinked, his expression a combination of confusion and shock. "Jesus, Mike, of _course_ I would." He frowned. "Why would you _ever_ believe I wouldn't?"

Now, to admit an uncomfortable truth. She'd never thought of herself as an envious person, but Kirill's arrival had tested that belief to the limits. "Because I've only been your wife for ten years. Kirill's been your brother since before you were even born."

"You're right. He has." He reached out to take her hand. When he spoke again, his voice was perfectly calm. "The way I see it, Kirill's my twin, so part of the family I was born with. But you're my wife, so part of the family I made. Deliberately, because marrying you and having a family with you was what I wanted, more than _anything_ else in the world." He stroked his thumb across her knuckles, pausing on her ring finger. "I care about Kirill, more than he probably knows, more than most people who aren't identical twins would ever understand, and it would hurt like _hell_ to lose him all over again, but there is no version of my future where I will _ever_ choose him over you. You hear me?"

Her throat was tight, so she gave a quick nod.

Eventually, she found her voice. "Does Kirill know that? Not to ever pull any kind of 'me or her' stunt?"

"I haven't warned him in so many words, but he's a smart guy. He lived with us for almost eight months. He knows what kind of people we are, what kind of marriage we have. He'll know where he fits, and what kind of behaviour we will and won't tolerate from him."

She wasn't so sure. "I just…"

"What?"

She stabbed a piece of avocado. "You say Kirill will know where he fits, and I think you're right when you mean where he fits with us, but what about _Kate_? Does he understand where he fits with her, and what kind of behaviour _she_ will and won't tolerate from him?"

"You worried he's gonna cheat on her? Or get drunk one night and knock her about?"

"Not that, no." From the numerous talks the two of them had had, she knew that might have been an issue for the old Kirill, but also that the new Kirill was trying to be a better, kinder and gentler man. She was sure he wouldn't cheat or lay a finger on Kate, any more than William would cheat or lay a finger on her.

"Then what?"

"Do you think he understands that Kate's looking to settle down? That, at some point, she's going to want them to move in together? Maybe even buy a house? Is he ready for that? Does he understand it's a thing that most people do?"

"I think so, yeah. He's led a pretty dysfunctional life, but not so much he doesn't know how the normal world works." He sighed. "This is really bothering you, isn't it?"

"Of course it is. If Kirill and Kate's relationship goes bad, it's gonna have serious consequences for all of us." Especially since both people involved had fiery, unpredictable tempers. There would be no polite shaking of hands and calmly agreeing to go their separate ways, here. If the ship went down, it would take everyone in a ten mile radius with it.

He reclaimed his abandoned fork. "You want me to have a word with him?"

"Can you at least just sound out what his intentions are? Cus, Lord knows, Kate's not exactly the best of communicators. She could be telling him she loves him in that flippant, offhand way of hers, and it'll be sailing right over his head." The language barrier wouldn't help. Kirill's English was excellent, but rather formal—he didn't always understand slang and colloquialisms.

"I'll talk to him if you talk to her," he offered.

"Deal."

He sighed and chased down a piece of sausage. "Fun, isn't it? Being the older, responsible one?"

"When I die, I want to be reincarnated as a youngest child. Not doing this 'oldest daughter' bullshit again."

He shook his head and jabbed his fork at her. "No talking about dying. You're not even forty yet."

"Says the man who hates his birthday because it means he's another year closer to death."

His smile was sheepish. "You _do_ realize, that was always just an excuse?"

"For not liking your birthday? Course I do."

"So, you know what the real reason was?"

It didn't take a genius to figure it out. "Honey, you didn't like your birthday because it made you think about Kirill." She leaned out to grab his hand. "But you have Kirill back now, so there's absolutely no reason you can't enjoy it again."

"Would enjoy it more if _someone_ bought me a Ferrari," he muttered.

It was like listening to a broken record. "For the last time, Mister Cooper, I am _not_ buying you a Ferrari."

"How about, you buy me _half_ a Ferrari?" William counter-proposed. "And Kate buys Kirill the other half?"

"You really expect me to believe the two of you would be able to share a luxury Italian car?" She sliced up a piece of egg. "You can't even share barbecue duties. Every time we have people over for food, and I ask one of you to manage the grill, it's like a goddamn civil war."

"That's because we're dealing with fire. It's a primal, masculine thing."

"Primal, sure. Let's go with that."

"Just be glad we're only arguing about how to cook meat, and not beating the shit out of each other down in the creek."

"Can I ask another personal question?"

"Sure."

Michelle threw up her hands. "How did your mother _ever_ manage when you were kids?"

"She wasn't afraid to threaten us with physical violence." He snickered. "Plus, she smoked a lot of weed. Pretty sure that helped."

Sadly, neither option was a solution for her. "Every time you have one of your stupid fights, I start to wish your mom was alive. She'd be able to give me some good advice about how to keep the pair of you in line."

He grinned as he stabbed some sausage.

"What's that grin for?"

"You _really_ think you'd like it if our mom was still here?"

"Why the hell wouldn't I?"

"Cus I think one of the reasons you stayed with me even after you found out I was an orphan loser is that you knew you would never have to deal with a mother-in-law."

"Will, that's a terrible thing to say!"

"But am I wrong?"

She huffed and chewed on her egg. Sometimes, it was helpful when your husband knew how to read you. Other times, not so much. "I'm pleading the fifth," she said.

"That's what I thought."

"I'm sure she was a wonderful woman, and I'm being honest when I say, I _really_ wish I could have met her, but from what you've told me about her, I think the two of us would have butted heads."

"Would've been like watching an immovable object meet an irresistible force."

"Yeah, but which one would I be?" Irresistible, she hoped.

He chewed and gave her the blandest of smiles.

"Speaking of immovable objects, has the Company decided if it's going to allow us to take our holiday to Geneva yet?" She would be seriously pissed if it didn't. The bookings were all refundable, but what with one thing and another, they hadn't been on a proper vacation for almost two years. And after the twelve months they'd had, they needed some quality time away.

His face lit up. "Sorry, yeah, I forgot to tell you, spoke to my boss about it again this morning, he says we're all good to go. The thing that was threatening to be a problem has been given to another group."

She didn't understand how a 'thing' could be such a problem that William would have to cancel his holiday for it, but she also didn't work for the world's leading intelligence organization. Like God, the CIA moved in mysterious ways.

"That's great news," was all she said.

"Starting to really look forward to it. Been so long since the four of us had any decent time away together."

"The two of us should try and have at least one night to ourselves. Leave Kirill and Kate with the kids, go check out a nice restaurant, have some raclette or fondue."

"Sure that could be arranged."

"Kirill seems to be looking forward to the vacation as well."

A strange look flashed over his face. Alarm? Concern? She wasn't quite sure—it vanished as quickly as it appeared. "Think he's just eager to be away from the office for a couple of weeks."

The way he said it—far too forced and nonchalant for her liking. "Okay, Cooper, what on _earth_ are the two of you up to?"

"We're not up to anything."

Like _hell_ they weren't. "Start talking," she said, tapping the spines of her fork on his plate. "Or, what I bought at Coup de Foudre today stays for my eyes only."

His shoulders slumped; he knew he was beaten. "There's, uh, there's a _tiny_ work thing we need to take care of."

"How tiny?"

"A couple of hours. But that's all, I promise. We'll be gone and back before you know it."

She knew better than to ask what it was, but also knew she couldn't say no. If it was a work thing, he and Kirill would have to do it, whether she and Kate liked it or not. "You can have a morning, but that's it," she said, raising her fork to point it at him. "I don't want work using up time that's supposed to be for us."

"A morning's all we'll need."

"Then, we're good."

"So, you're still going to show me what you bought at Coup de Foudre today?"

"Later, yes."

He checked his watch. "How much later are we talking about?"

"That's up to you. We came here for dinner, but there's nothing to say we have to stay for dessert."

"Drusha won't go to bed until nine."

"And Kirill will be suspicious if we come home too early."

He smiled. "I guess we'll be having a slice of the Herrentorte, then."

"I guess so." She tapped her chest. "But this time, _I_ want the cherry, okay?"

They made it home for just after nine. The house was intact, the roof was still on and there was no police car parked in the drive—just Kirill’s beloved RSV4, parked in the shadow of the garage.

From the hall, she couldn’t hear the TV, and the only light she could see was an ambient glow from the back of the house.

“If you are not Viko and Michelle, you are about to have an _extremely_ violent end to your night,” a familiar, threatening voice called out.

Was it a good or a bad thing that Kirill’s first reaction to _any_ disturbance, no matter how minor or harmless it seemed, was to instantly threaten the person behind it with death? They would have to train him out of that, teach him to at least pause and ask a few questions first…

“It’s just us,” William called out, shutting the front door behind them. “Relax. Put the sniper rifle away.”

They found Kirill sprawled on the couch with a paperback book propped up on his chest. Something called _The Forever War_ —military sci-fi by the looks of the cover image. “So? How was your night out?” he asked.

“Was good,” Michelle said. “Had a main course each, shared a dessert, went for a quick drink at another place after.”

Kirill sat up, swinging his feet onto the floor. "What did you have to eat?"

"The usual," William said, going to the kitchen to leave his things in a bowl by the fridge. "Sauerkraut casserole for me, a Cobb Salad for Mike."

Kirill made a sound of disgust. "Sauerkraut, my God, you could not _pay_ me enough money to eat that."

William patted his stomach. "Good, hearty German food. Absolutely nothing wrong with it."

"Nothing that _killing_ yourself would not fix," Kirill muttered.

It was interesting, how the twins’ attitude to German food differed. Did William’s love of Sauerkraut and Herrentorte have less to do with once having lived in Berlin, and more to do with his memories of his grandmother? Kirill had only met her twice, and didn't remember either meeting. To William, she was a much-loved and much-missed Oma who’d made food that reminded him of 'home'. To Kirill, she was just another long-dead, long-forgotten relation.

Michelle explained, "It's what William was eating when we first met."

"Sauerkraut?"

"Yes."

"And you _still_ married him? Even though you knew he had terrible taste in food?"

She took off her coat and threw it over the back of a chair. "Yeah, cus nobody in Russia _ever_ eats cabbage."

" _I_ don't."

"To be fair, she married me for other reasons," William said.

Michelle sat down to unzip her boots. "You mean the fact you got me pregnant?"

"Like you had nothing to do with it," William said. "You just lay on the bed with your eyes closed while I did the dirty on you."

To Kirill, she said, "I'll have you know, I was a nice, respectable Catholic girl before I got involved with your brother. He led me astray. Me getting pregnant was _all_ his fault."

Kirill nodded. "Hmm, yes. That is more or less what Kate said."

" _Excuse_ me?"

Kirill jammed a bookmark into his book. "Katenka told me that before you met William, you had not been with a lot of men."

Michelle felt her ears go red to their tips, whether from anger or embarrassment, she wasn't quite sure. "That's… okay, what the _hell_ else has Kate told you?"

"Quite a lot of things, actually." Kirill looked to his brother, his face breaking into a grin. "Did you know, Katenka used to call you Sergeant Stamina?" he said.

Michelle wanted the ground to open up and swallow her whole. Why did her sister only remember the embarrassing stuff? Why did Kate never tell people stories about all of the nice things she'd done? She turned to William to explain.

Once again, her husband surprised her. "I actually knew that, yeah," he said.

"You did?" she said.

"One time, years ago, back before we were even engaged, I was staying over at your place, the phone rang when you were in the shower, I saw it was Kate, so I answered it, and she called me that name."

"You never told me that."

He shrugged as he took off his coat. "Didn't seem important at the time. She'd been out partying all night, think she was still a little bit drunk, so I figured I should just forget it."

"I am glad you have this nickname, Viko," said Kirill. "If you had been the type of man who could only manage to pleasure your wife for two or three minutes at a time, I think I would have had to disown you. In _that_ area, we Orlovs have always been over-achievers."

But William wasn't really an Orlov. But if stamina was one of their traits, then maybe he was?

"Okay, can we change the subject please?" she asked, pointing from one twin to the other. "I'm not as uptight as I used to be, but I'm not quite ready to openly discuss my sex life with my husband and brother-in-law at the same time." And if she wanted privacy, she should apparently stop discussing it with her sister as well.

William grabbed her coat from the chair and took it with his to hang them up at the door. "Does Kate know about the fake dating thing?" he called back from the hall.

She swore she actually saw Kirill's ears perk up. "I am sorry. The _what_ dating thing?" he said.

"Honey, please don't," she pleaded. "It's been ten years. For the love of God, just let it go."

"The story of how and why Mike and I got together," William said, coming back into the room.

Kirill made a 'continue' motion.

If they were going to tell that stupid story, she might as well tell it herself. "Long story short, back when I was in my late twenties, and working at a law firm downtown, I told a guy I used to work with I had a boyfriend when I actually didn't—"

"Why?" Kirill asked.

"Because the guy kept hitting on me, but I didn't like him, so I wanted him to leave me alone." She pulled off her boots and threw them into the corner.

"Why?" Kirill asked.

"Because he was a sleazy asshole, and I had absolutely no interest in dating him. So, I told him I was dating someone else, but he told everyone else in the office—"

"Why?" Kirill asked.

"Because he was trying to embarrass me in front of my boss." She waited, but no new childish demand was forthcoming. "He knew we had a big work social event coming up a week or so later—"

"—And he knew everyone would expect you to bring your new boyfriend to the event with you," Kirill concluded.

If Kirill interrupted her one more time, she was going to undo her garter and strangle him with it. "So I needed someone to pretend to be my boyfriend for the day."

Kirill gestured at his brother. "Which I assume is where Viko came in?"

She nodded.

"And how did he do?"

"I was a _star_ ," said William, grinning. "Charmed the pants off everyone at the party. Especially her boss."

"You told me you didn't remember the party," Michelle said. She wouldn't dispute the second claim.

"I don't. But I _do_ remember how charming I was."

"And let me guess, you charmed everybody so much that, after the party, Mishenka decided she _actually_ wanted to date you?" Kirill asked.

William kicked off his shoes. "See, there's the funny part, cus by that time, we'd actually already—"

"—already seen each other a couple of times," Michelle interjected, giving her husband a 'stop talking' stare. She could just about cope with telling Kirill the 'fake dating' story. There was no way in _hell_ she was also telling him about that first night.

"Katenka told me you and Viko had sex on the first date."

So much for that plan. William was right—Kate and Kirill _were_ perfectly matched, because now she wanted to strangle her sister with her new garter as well.

"Not that there is anything wrong with sleeping with someone on the first date," Kirill hastily added.

Try telling her mother that. "At least we actually went on a date instead of just getting it on in somebody's shower."

" _Guest_ shower," Kirill huffed.

"Yeah, cus that made all the difference." She didn't mention the time with the rug.

Kirill pushed up from the couch. "It all seems like a rather complicated way to solve a problem. I am surprised you did not opt for the simpler solution."

"Which was?"

"Viko should have killed the sleazy asshole for you."

"I _did_ offer," William said. "But somebody"—he pointed his finger at her—"turned all proper and law-abiding on me."

Michelle's head started to pound. "Okay, just so we're straight, in this family, we do not _ever_ harm or murder people. No matter who they are, or what they've done. There's this tricky thing called the _law_ we all need to consider?"

Kirill asked, "Not even if they harm or threaten the children?"

"Okay, _that_ , I'll maybe allow." She didn't like where Kirill's thinking had gone, but it was good he felt so protective of his nephew and niece. If she, Kate and William couldn't civilize him, perhaps Drusha and Tania could.

Which reminded her. "The kids give you any trouble tonight?" she asked.

"Not at all. I played a game of Jenga with Tania, sent her to bed at eight o'clock on the dot like you said."

"Who won?" William asked.

"I did." Kirill grabbed his riding coat from the chair, swinging into the heavy leather. "She tried to cheat, of course, but I cheated even more."

So much for the adult setting the good example. And how the _hell_ did you even cheat at Jenga?

Michelle pointed her thumb at the ceiling. "Drusha still awake?"

"I am not sure," Kirill said. "He went to bed when Tania did, told me he wanted to read his book."

"Don't forget yours," Michelle said, pointing to the paperback he'd dropped on the couch. She winced as Kirill curled it up and stuffed it into his jacket pocket, making a mental note to never lend him any of her own novels.

"I'll go look in on him, make sure he put his light out," William said.

"Make sure he does not have a torch, because I think he is the type of child who would use it to keep reading under the covers," Kirill said with an air of authority, as if that was something he'd once done himself.

He zipped up his coat and went to pick up his helmet and gloves; Michelle followed him to the front door. "Don't worry. We'll make sure he goes to sleep."

And not just so he wouldn't be tired for school in the morning…

Kirill paused as he grabbed the door handle. "Does Katenka know the fake dating story?" he asked.

That was the one part of the 'meeting William' epic she didn't remember sharing. "Don't think so, no."

"May I share it with her?"

Michelle sighed. "If you must." William was right—they'd been together for almost ten years, it was time to stop stressing and let the past go.

"It will make an amusing end to her day," Kirill explained. "She texted me earlier, telling me she is very angry and wants to murder her boss."

Michelle knew that feeling. "I thought she was working the late shift tonight?"

"She is. But she said she would come to my place after."

"If you call in sick tomorrow, I'll know why," William called out from the kitchen.

"Tell her I said 'hi', give her my love," Michelle added.

Kirill smirked. "Don't worry, I will," he said, the gleam in his eyes making it clear he would be 'giving' her something later. He opened the door. "Enjoy the fucking," he whispered and disappeared.

She closed the door over behind him. A minute later, she heard a motorbike start, idle for a few seconds, then rev and race away into the night.

She found William with his head in the fridge. She didn't know why; he couldn't _possibly_ be hungry again.

"Your brother is a real piece of work," she said.

William sighed. "Delightful, isn't he?" He closed the fridge and walked up to hold her, slipping his arms around her waist, pulling her in for a lingering kiss. He tasted of Herrentorte and beer. "Another Cooper-Orlov family talent," he murmured.

"Why don't you go check on the kids?" she said, running her hands around his neck. "Then come join me downstairs?"

"Downstairs?"

"I believe you mentioned something about a basement rug?"

A smile spread across his lips. "Hmm, yeah, I did, didn't I?"

"I think it'll give us frictions burns, but I'm ready to give it a try if you are."

"There's a bottle of lotion in the basement bathroom."

"We might need that, yeah."

"You, uh, you gonna be ready to model your new underwear for me?"

She pushed up to kiss him, gently biting his lip. "Don't worry. I promise I'll give you a _really_ good show." He let out the smallest and softest of groans. She unwound herself from his arms, pushing him towards the stairs. "But not until you've checked on Drusha."

At the bottom stair, he paused. "Thank you," he quietly said.

"For what?"

"For the last ten years. For our kids. For this house. For everything you've done for Kirill. For always being there for me. For all the ways you spoil me. For being such a fantastic wife."

His words warmed her to her core; she couldn't help but smile. "Been pretty good, hasn't it?"

"Better than good. It's been amazing."

She couldn't disagree. They'd had their blips, their ups and downs, their arguments and falling outs—what married couple with full-time jobs and two kids hadn't—but through it all, they'd never once lost sight of each other. She loved him, and she was still in love with him—even now, he still got her as hot and bothered as on the night of their first date.

"Go," she said, making a shooing motion. "Check on Drusha, I'll meet you downstairs."

With a parting smile, he jogged upstairs. She took the stairs to the basement instead. In the flex room with the couch and TV, she pulled the curtains, turned on the fire and set the overhead lights to low.

She heard footsteps on the stairs; a few seconds later, William appeared. "Drusha's out for the count," he said. "Fell asleep reading his book. I checked on Tania. She's out cold as well."

"Then, we don't have to worry about keeping the kids awake." Smiling, she curled a finger at him.

Eyes hungry, he moved towards her. She grabbed him by the front of his shirt, manoeuvred him towards the couch and roughly pushed him into the seat. She wanted the noisy and hard part now—soft and tender could wait until later.

She leaned over him, skimming her hand down his chest until it was resting on his belt buckle. "You ready for the show?" she said, using both hands to slowly but surely work the belt strap out of the buckle.

Eyes wide, he nodded and swallowed.

She dragged a finger over the swell of his groin, enjoying the feeling of something turning stiff underneath, snapped the button on his jeans and slowly but surely pulled the zip down. She yanked up his shirt and leaned over to plant a single, messy wet kiss on his stomach, then trailed her tongue around his belly button. He let out a groan, and every muscle in his groin and abdomen tensed. She could almost taste his arousal—he knew _exactly_ what was coming next.

Preview delivered, she stood up straight, shaking her hair away from her face. In one smooth motion, she grabbed the hem of her jersey-style dress and pulled it up over her head, revealing the lace and satin glory of her brand new wine-coloured underwear set.

His eyes roamed over her body again. "Please let me tear that off you," he whispered.

"Not yet," she said, lightly holding a hand to his chest. "And no tearing. This was _extremely_ expensive."

He ran a finger under the strap of a garter. "From Coup de Foudre, right?"

"That's right."

His lips curled in a soft grin.

"What's so funny?" she asked.

"You know what Coup de Foudre means?"

Seriously? She was about to ride him like there was no tomorrow, and he was giving her a _language lesson_? And not even the kind of 'language lesson' she liked? "Can't say I do."

"It's French," he said. "It's a weather term, literally means a bolt of lightning."

"Really?"

He reached up to cup her face; his was the most tender smile she'd ever seen. "It's also the phrase the French use to describe the feeling of falling in love at first sight."

"Is that how it was for you when we met?" she asked, slipping her hand inside his jeans.

He groaned and pushed his hips up. "More or less, yeah," he murmured.

They'd been together for almost ten years; it was time to finally tell him something she'd never told him before. "So, if I told you I knew I wanted to marry you by the end of our first date, you wouldn't think I was a bunny boiler?"

"No, because I knew I wanted to marry you halfway through our second lunch."

"That wasn't first sight."

"Close enough."

"What was it that made you decide?"

She started to stroke him, gently at first, until he covered her hand with his, guiding her to a firmer pace. "When you made me give you a dollar," he said. "Could already see how beautiful you were, that made me realize how smart you were as well."

She remembered that. She never had written him a receipt. "You like intelligent women, right?"

"Beauty can be dangerous, but intelligence can be lethal," he murmured.

"I like that."

"Thought you might."

"Speaking of things I like, do you remember our first night together?"

"The night we went to Niko's? When you came back to find me, and begged me to take you back to my place?"

"That night, yeah."

He nodded. "Like it was yesterday. Gotta be one of the most memorable three nights of my life."

She wondered what the other two were. "And do you remember, how you woke me up at four in the morning?"

His grin was wicked, bordering on depraved. "If I recall correctly, I think I got you onto your knees, and basically fucked you until you couldn't speak."

That was pretty much how she remembered it as well.

She let go of him, but only to reach around to unhook her bra. Carefully, one delicate shoulder strap at a time, she peeled it off and dropped it on top of her dress. "For old time's sake, if you think your knees can handle it, how about we try that again?"


End file.
